In his poignant and at times grandiloquent memoir that intertwines grief and travel, Rory MacLean explores the impact of his wife’s unexpected passing from cancer on his life. Through a blend of new-age philosophy and introspective musings, MacLean expresses ideas like “none of us are created for naught” and “love can but lead to truth,” while delivering striking observations such as, “I watched gods walk on fire.” Over the five years following his wife Katrin’s death, he presents himself as both open-minded and occasionally irritable, reminiscent of a more cantankerous Michael Palin.
As a seasoned travel writer, MacLean has journeyed to various corners of the world, from piloting a handmade aircraft over Crete to accompanying a drug lord in Burma. This work marks his first publication since losing Katrin, who had been a constant presence in his life for 32 years. His narrative tenderly recounts her final moments, as he grapples with the overwhelming grief of her loss. Seeking solace, he embarks on a quest to find “thin places,” or áiteanna tanaí, as described in Celtic mythology, where the boundary between realms is said to be fragile. His travels begin in Jerusalem and lead him to over a dozen sacred sites, including an ashram in India, a Native American community in South Dakota, a challenging Vipassanā retreat in Suffolk, and a ceremonial ayahuasca experience in Peru.
MacLean’s determination is commendable. He takes the risky step of entering an Israeli settlement in the West Bank just weeks before the October 7 attacks, evading IDF patrols in an effort to recreate the conditions under which Jacob, a fellow traveler, envisioned a ladder to heaven. In the United States, he confronts an approaching tornado, too captivated by the unfolding storm to seek safety. Meanwhile, in Bhutan, he undertakes a two-day journey on a precarious road to attend a Buddhist festival.
His skills as a travel writer shine as he vividly recounts a Herzogian boat expedition down a river into the Amazon, described as “twisting like a serpent towards another world.” He provides rich, evocative details of a cremation site in Bhutan, noting the “barley burned in a metal basin, its aroma said to ward off hungry ghosts,” alongside the chanting of monks. In South Africa, he consults a sangoma, a traditional healer, highlighting the prevalence of diviners and herbalists in the country compared to medical practitioners. At the Rosebud Sioux Reservation, he witnesses a powerful ritual featuring trance-like dances and offerings of flesh. His reflections on Victorian spiritualism and the contemporary use of AI to navigate grief are insightful and well-articulated.
However, the book suffers from inconsistent tonal shifts, oscillating between the pretentious—“Does sanctity fall from above or is it conditional on social convention, I wondered?”—and the informal—“kick the bucket,” “bunkum.” Additionally, some outdated language regarding minority groups, including terms like “crippled” and “swarthy-skinned,” detracts from the narrative. The physical descriptions of women he meets, whether “slender” or “chubby,” also feel unnecessary.
Throughout his journey, MacLean navigates a delicate balance between credulity and open-mindedness. While he occasionally references scientific perspectives, he quickly dismisses them as “reductionist” and “pathetic.” Instead, he becomes engrossed in numerology, speculating on the timing of Katrin’s potential reincarnation, based on varying opinions he encounters, ranging from 49 days post-death to years later, possibly as a dog. He assembles a collection of experiences he believes confirm without a doubt that Katrin’s spirit continues: a dream, a sunbeam, a blue ribbon, and the mysterious rearrangement of a friend’s furniture in Mexico.
In each new destination, MacLean’s quest for understanding typically follows a cycle of initial disappointment followed by a late realization. Much of the narrative hinges on his sensation of a vague, elusive presence—a tingling, a shift in the atmosphere—that feels deeply significant to him but challenging to articulate (“something infinitely subtle … it was there, and more than nothing”), which may prove frustrating for readers. Ultimately, a drawn-out metaphor about flight leads him, after numerous figurative and literal miles, to the conclusion that the journey itself holds greater importance than the destination.
Rory MacLean’s “Geography of Heaven: Travels to the Hereafter” is published by Abacus, priced at £22. To support the Guardian, copies can be ordered at guardianbookshop.com, where delivery fees may apply.
