There are countless books written about mountains, just take a look around the travel section of a bookshop. However, there are not so many written about hills, in particular, the small inconsequential hills that abound the landscape in our country. A hill might not have the majesty or presence of a mountain, but for Cox, these are more accessible, and still have as much mystery and lore and their larger cousins.

Beginning in Somerset under the ever-watchful eye of the Tor and the inland sea that is the Somerset levels he wanders from Britain’s smallest hill, in Norfolk no less, to the highest point on the South Coast. Yet another house move takes him to a house most of the way up a hill in Derbyshire; he is snowed in and it is a place that alarms his cats, and he is often woken at 3.44 in the morning from a nightmare and he would often hear things being moved in the loft… Not many things scare him, sitting with his feet over the edge of Golden Cap is no problem, but halfway up some mechanical edifice is enough to freak Cox out.

He wades through some family history when he discovers that his great grandmother who lived on Dartmoor, prior to moving to Nottingham. He finds that Dartmoor is at its most eerie in the summer when the heat makes time move like treacle. He spends time walking across Dorset’s hills spotting his third hare since moving to the West Country and amusing himself over alternative meanings for the village names in the area. Just seeing a hill on a car journey and then finding on an OS map late is a thrill, especially if there is access to walk up it later.

As I drive the roads, I watch the hills. I always notice the interesting ones, and none of them aren’t interesting, so I notice them all.

Ring the Hill is not quite a sequel to 21st Century Yokel, more of a slightly lairy companion. He seems to be one of the fastest funded authors on the publisher Unbound as he doesn’t really fit in any of the niches that a regular publisher has. Preferring to write widely about whatever the hell takes his fancy, from folklore to the music that works best when he is walking in a place. It is this wide-ranging fascination with all that he sees is what makes this book such a delight. Hares permeate the book too, not just the scant physical ones that he sees out and about, but the way that they are interwoven into the natural and spiritual worlds. I thought that this was a wonderful book, full of tangents and glimpses of things that fascinate him. I love the traditional linocut illustrations of hares that have been created by his mother and I was glad to see that his very LOUD DAD was back in the book again. ( )

It’s impossible to imagine a more genial, candid, or generous tour guide than Tom Cox, whose fascinating, enlightening and moving accounts of his meanderings through the English countryside fill the pages of Ring the Hill. This is by no means a conventional travel book: the information it provides regarding towns, villages, hamlets, hills, rivers, fields, historical sites and monuments that are on Cox’s itinerary is secondary to the author’s often humorous, sometimes sobering reflections on being alive, and the story of his own life in progress: the relationships, observations, learning opportunities and personal decisions that have bestowed on him an uncommon degree of self-awareness and a vivid sense of his place in the world and, indeed, the cosmos. Tom Cox is less traveler than nomad: a man who moves house with unusual regularity, not out of dissatisfaction, but more out of restless curiosity, driven, one imagines, by a yearning for a new and different experience. Once settled into new digs—sometimes before settling—his custom is to go out and explore, compulsively and in any weather, the surrounding countryside and jot down his findings and commentary in a journal. In the six sections of Ring the Hill, Cox reports on ramblings through, among others, Glastonbury, The Peak District, Dartmoor and Dartington. Interspersed among descriptions of his discoveries and sightings are accounts of events taking place in his life at the time: visits with his Mom and Dad, encounters with locals (human and animal), the music he’s listening to, an obsession with climbing hills, an equal obsession with swimming, extreme weather, the adventures of his cats, his struggles to keep a tidy garden. Cox writes from a perspective of great compassion for the natural world and for those among us who strive to nurture and protect that world: his critiques are generally reserved for the disfiguring scars that recent human activity has left upon the landscape. He is knowledgeable, a retainer and purveyor of facts, but also easily distracted: we often witness him changing course on a whim when something off the beaten path catches his eye. He is flawed but aware of and admirably at peace with his shortcomings. Discussions of the ways in which natural phenomena influence his moods cause us to suspect that here is someone highly attuned and sensitive to the rhythms of the planet. Casual references to the presence of the dead within the land of the living and the influence of ancient rites and customs upon the present lend a mystical note to the narrative. "Make of me what you will," he seems to be saying, "this is who I am." The overall tone in these pieces is wise and conversational, and it is a conversation that will leave you hungry for more while lingering in your mind long after you have finished reading the book. ( )