W.H. Hudson wrote Far Away and Long Ago back in 1918, and honestly, it’s weird how much it still hits home. You’d think a memoir about a guy growing up on the Argentine pampas in the 1840s would feel like a dusty relic. It doesn't. Instead, it taps into this universal, almost primal ache we all have for a world that felt bigger, slower, and way more vibrant than the digital blur we’re living in now.
It's a trip.
Hudson wasn’t just some guy reminiscing; he was a world-class ornithologist and a founding member of the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds (RSPB). He wrote this book while he was stuck in a bed in London, sick as a dog, during the middle of World War I. Think about that context for a second. The world was literally tearing itself apart with mustard gas and trenches, and here’s Hudson, mentally teleporting himself back to a childhood filled with giant thistles, wild gauchos, and thousands of flamingos.
The Raw Reality of the Argentine Pampas
People get the wrong idea about this book. They think "far away and long ago" implies some sugary, nostalgic fantasy. It’s not that at all. Hudson’s Argentina was violent. It was chaotic. He describes a land where the law was basically whatever the guy with the biggest knife said it was.
He talks about the "Ombu" trees. These things are massive, weirdly shaped giants that acted as landmarks in an ocean of grass. He doesn't just say they were big. He describes the specific way the light hit them and how they served as the only shelter for miles. It’s that level of granular detail that makes the pampas feel more real than the street you live on.
The book covers his life at "Los Veinte-cinco Ombues" (The Twenty-five Ombus). He wasn't just looking at nature; he was part of it. He writes about the "Dictator" Rosas, a brutal leader whose influence loomed over everyone’s lives. This wasn't a playground. It was a frontier. Hudson’s family were settlers, and they dealt with everything from smallpox outbreaks to the constant threat of local civil wars.
Why Hudson’s View of Nature Is Different
Most nature writers today sound like they’re reciting a documentary script. Hudson sounds like he’s describing a family member.
He had this concept he called "animism." It wasn't religious in the traditional sense. It was more about a deep, physical reaction to the living world. He felt a literal "shiver" when he saw certain plants or birds. He argued that this isn't something you learn in a book; it’s a biological trait we’ve mostly lost because we spend too much time looking at screens and concrete.
The Birdman of the Pampas
Birds are the soul of this book. Seriously. If you aren't into birds, Hudson might actually change your mind. He describes the upland plover, the crested screamer, and the military starling with such intensity that you start to realize what we've lost in the modern era of mass extinction.
- He mentions the "Vizcacha," a giant rodent that lived in huge underground cities.
- He describes the migration of the Golden Plover, a bird that travels from the Arctic all the way to Argentina.
- He recounts the terrifying sight of a locust swarm that literally turned day into night.
These aren't just observations. They’re witnesses. Hudson was watching an ecosystem that was already beginning to vanish as he wrote about it. The cattle industry and fences were starting to carve up the wild grass. He knew the world he was describing was gone forever, which is why the prose feels so urgent.
The Psychological Hook of Nostalgia
Why do we keep coming back to stories like this? Why does Far Away and Long Ago rank as a classic?
Psychologists talk about "autonoetic consciousness." That’s just a fancy way of saying our ability to mentally travel through time. Hudson was a master of this. By writing the book while he was dying, he wasn't just "remembering." He was re-living.
There’s a specific chapter where he talks about his mother. It’s gut-wrenching. He realizes, as an old man, that his entire connection to the beauty of the world came from her. When she died, that light dimmed. Anyone who has lost a parent or a childhood home knows that feeling. It’s the realization that you can never actually go back, except through the act of writing or remembering.
What Most People Get Wrong About Hudson
A lot of critics try to pigeonhole Hudson as just a "nature writer." That’s a mistake. He was an anthropologist of the human spirit.
He spent time with the gauchos—the legendary South American cowboys. He didn't look down on them. He saw them as a distinct breed of humans who were perfectly adapted to their environment. He describes their "facóns" (knives) and their incredible horsemanship not as exotic curiosities, but as necessary tools for survival.
He also didn't shy away from the darker side of human nature. He tells stories of neighbors who went "mad" from the isolation of the plains. He recounts the casual cruelty that was common in a world without police or courts. It’s this honesty that keeps the book from being "twee." It’s gritty. It’s real.
The Problem with Modern "Nature"
Honestly, we’ve sterilized nature. We go to national parks and stay on the marked trails. We look at high-def photos on Instagram.
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Hudson’s version of nature was messy. It involved blood, mud, and the very real possibility of getting lost and dying of thirst. In the book, he recounts falling into a deep depression as a teenager because of a heart condition. The doctors told him he wouldn't live long. Instead of giving up, he spent more time in the wild. He claimed that the sheer vitality of the pampas kept him alive. Whether that’s medically true or not doesn't really matter; the point is that his connection to the "far away" world was his lifeline.
The Impact on Literature and Conservation
You can see Hudson’s fingerprints all over 20th-century literature. Ernest Hemingway was a huge fan. In The Sun Also Rises, he actually mentions Hudson. Why? Because Hudson wrote about the world with a "clean" style that focused on the thing itself, not just the feeling of the thing.
Joseph Conrad, the guy who wrote Heart of Darkness, was another close friend. They used to hang out and talk about the "loss" of the wild places.
Beyond the books, Hudson helped change how we think about the environment. He was one of the first people to scream at the top of his lungs that we were killing off species for no reason. He hated the fashion of the time—women wearing bird feathers in their hats. He fought against it and won. Every time you see a protected bird sanctuary, you’re looking at Hudson’s legacy.
Actionable Lessons from a Century-Old Memoir
You don't have to move to Argentina to get what Hudson was talking about. His life offers a blueprint for staying sane in a hyper-connected world.
Practice "Deep Observation"
Hudson didn't just look at a bird; he watched it for hours. He knew its call, its flight pattern, and its temperament. Next time you're outside, pick one thing—a tree, a bug, the way the wind moves through a hedge—and actually look at it for five minutes without checking your phone. It’s harder than it sounds.
Value Your Own History
Hudson wrote his memoir because he realized his unique perspective would die with him. Everyone has a "far away and long ago" in their own life. Your childhood, your town as it used to be, the people who are gone. Write it down. Not for an audience, but to keep it from evaporating.
Connect with the Local
He became an expert on his immediate surroundings. You don't need to travel to the Amazon to find "nature." The weeds growing in a vacant lot or the birds in your backyard are part of a massive, complex system. Learn their names.
Embrace the Shiver
Don't be afraid of that weird, overwhelming feeling you get when you see something beautiful or vast. Hudson leaned into it. He called it "the sense of the supernatural in natural things." It’s okay to be awed by the world. In fact, it might be the most human thing you can do.
Hudson’s world is gone. The pampas are mostly farms now. The 25 Ombus are likely gone. But the "shiver" he felt is still available to us if we bother to look.
To really get the most out of this, go find a physical copy of Far Away and Long Ago. Don't read it on a screen. Take it outside. Sit under a tree. Read about the giant thistles and the purple fire of the sunset while you're actually sitting in the world Hudson fought so hard to protect. You'll realize pretty quickly that the "far away" isn't a place on a map—it's a way of seeing.