This is a diary of reminiscences, giving a few pages about every month in the last year of Roald Dahl's life, which he spent in the English countryside at the cottage where he wrote many of his best works. He tells you what each month means to him, his most vivid memories. He didn't know this would be his last year. Or maybe he did; he never mentions his illness.
My rating is more like 3.5 stars. I enjoyed it, and there are some terrific observations and vignettes. For whatever reason I was slightly disappointed, or I'd give 4 stars. Maybe it's only because November is cold and dreary and not the best time to think about months and seasons and gardens and wildlife. Maybe it's that there is an undercurrent of sadness, just beneath the joyful reflections, and this was poignant in a way that didn't mesh ideally with the moment. The writing can be quite beautiful. Now, I should say I listened to the audiobook (while walking in said cold). The book itself was out of print for decades and is illustrated by Quentin Blake, and only recently back in print. If I get a chance I'd love to see the artwork.
Maybe I was disappointed because I have a special interest in the yearly cycle for research I'm doing. Having found Going Solo such a thrill, I expected a lot. My dad is also English and also grew up in the countryside, but during and after WWII, rather than before it. Dahl was old enough that he was a fighter pilot during WWII, as told in Going Solo and mentioned briefly here. Anyway, some of his youthful antics are quite similar to stories I've heard many times from my dad. This is very much about English boyhood before say 1960, and English flora and fauna, and what it's like to have a garden.
Something I never realized: Roald Dahl never once lived in a city or town, or so he says. (Hm, this seems to be a fib. If I remember correctly, he was working in intelligence and living in DC when he met his first wife and started publishing stories.) Anyway, he was a thoroughly rural fellow.
There's lots of talk about birds, which ones show up, where they're going or coming from, what specks of color are on their eggs, their odd habits, and so on. I wanted to like that stuff more than I did.
He spends much of one of the autumn months talking about playing conkers, a game I knew nothing about, a sort of battle using horse chestnuts. Without much of a reference point, I found this the nadir of interest—now that I've watched a YouTube video I can relate better.
The closest My Year comes to overt loss is a heartfelt complaint that children don't want to climb trees for apples anymore. When I was a little kid, we lived in Florida for a while and we'd take an orange or two from a tree just over a wall, until the guy who owned the tree yelled at us one day. Roald Dahl welcomed all children to climb trees in his orchard and help themselves, but the times changed and no one took him up on it anymore.
My single favorite bit is when he talks about an ancient Roman cattle highway that goes by not far from his house, and the wilderness that has cropped up on the sides, and the biologists who come by to discover new species in the tangle. He also talks about getting a motorcycle at the end of high school (he never went to college) and keeping it secret all year because it wasn't allowed at his boarding school, and breaking the rules to go for joyrides once a week during his few hours off. And he talks about how to safely and humanely ward off moles in your garden with a wine bottle, if that's what you want to do (he loves moles himself). And he mentions that some butterfly species hibernate through the winter as adults, while for others it's eggs that withstand winter till a spring hatch, and for others it's caterpillars waiting out the chill in a chrysalis. I'd never realized these are all options nature uses. For me those moments were the highlights.