Van The Healer

Van & Chrissy Hynde. Dublin 1993.
Going for a song
Going for a song
Ian Rankin on Snow in San Anselmo by Van Morrison
In 1989, I was living in Thatcher-era, red-braced London, earning a pittance as a hi-fi journalist. I’d had two not very successful novels published and was having trouble finding a publisher willing to take a chance on my third. The maisonette I shared with my hard-working wife seemed cramped. I was spending three hours a day commuting across the city. I was 29 and already starting to feel like a burnout.

One morning, as I clambered aboard the train at Victoria, I felt my heart begin to race. There was a whistling in my ears, and I found breathing difficult. I jumped off the train and stood trembling on the platform, waiting for the heart attack. It didn’t come, but I was worried enough to return home and beg an early appointment with my GP. He diagnosed panic attacks and told me to take some rest. I apologised to my wife and workmates, got on an Intercity train, changed at York and found myself in Scarborough. It was autumn, and the place was dead. I found a cheap hotel room and unpacked my bag, concentrating on my Walkman. A few days before, a large parcel of Van Morrison reissues had arrived at the office. I’d brought half a dozen with me. The first into the machine was Hard Nose the Highway. I headed out and began walking along the seashore, the wind howling, while Van Morrison soothed me with the opening track, Snow in San Anselmo, conjuring a world of harmony, casual friendship and everyday miracles.

I didn’t know where San Anselmo was, but it sounded exotic. Van Morrison sang of an all-night pancake house, so I guessed California. Snow was a rarity there, yet it was falling, as the waitress explained to the narrator. The image conjured was of Edward Hopper’s painting Nighthawks, sleepless souls finding comfort and a kind of communion. Van Morrison seemed to be saying the world was full of possibility. I began to feel better, less stressed, revivified. Maybe out-of-season Scarborough also played its part — there wasn’t much more to do than take day-long walks. I was also thinking that it didn’t really matter whether my third book ever found a publisher; I could always try again. Snow in San Anselmo has been with me ever since. It takes me back to the rocky beach, the low autumn sun and gusts of ozone. It calms me, makes me smile, tells me to take things at my own pace.

Ian Rankin’s latest novel, The Naming of the Dead, is published by Orion