1

2 1 Introduction
3
4 Re-­mapping liminality
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6
7
Hazel Andrews and Les Roberts
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13 Lim·in·al: Of or pertaining to the threshold or initial stage of a process.
14
15 Land·scape: a) A view or prospect of natural inland scenery, such as can be taken
16 in at a glance from one point of view; a piece of country scenery; b) A tract of
land with its distinguishing characteristics and features, esp. considered as a

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product of modifying or shaping processes and agents (usually natural).
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The finitude into which we have entered somehow always borders somewhere on
the infinitude of physical or metaphysical being . . . life flows forth out of the door
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22 from the limitation of isolated separate existence into the limitlessness of all pos-
23 sible directions.
24 (Simmel 1994: 7–8)
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26
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27 While we would not wish to launch this collection of essays on liminality and
28 landscape by proposing an ‘authoritative’ definition of the book’s two overarch-
29 ing concepts, we nevertheless feel it instructive to consider for a moment the
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30 ‘general’ meanings ascribed to these terms in order to get a sense of how we

31 might go about negotiating understandings of the ways they are enacted, per-
32 formed or theorised in practice. ‘Of or pertaining to a threshold’, the liminal
33 already in some way connotes the spatial: a boundary, border, a transitional
34 landscape, or a doorway in Simmel’s sense of a physical as well as psychic
35 space of potentiality.1 The liminal is also, we note, the ‘initial stage of a process’.
36 It therefore exhibits temporal qualities, marking a beginning as well as an end,
37 but also duration in the unfolding of a spatio-­temporal process: liminality as a
38 generative act, a psychosocial intentionality of being. But what of landscape? A
39 view or prospect, a piece of inland scenery (as long as it is not urban), we take
40 from this the idea of landscape as image, vista, representation: a visual index of
41 an area of land (the countryside) as viewed from a given perspective. But also,
42 as a ‘tract’ of land we can infer a certain materiality and locatedness: a space one
43 can inhabit and navigate one’s way through in an embodied sense. By extension,
44 landscape is understood as something that is ‘shaped’ and ‘produced’, and which
45 is thus contingent on human or natural ‘processes and agents’. Insofar, then, as,

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 2   H. Andrews and L. Roberts
ontologically, landscapes are processual and in a constant state of transition and 1
becoming is there not a case for suggesting that landscapes themselves are 2
intrinsically liminal? Indeed, as David Crouch enquires in the afterword to this 3
volume, ‘can landscape be anything but liminal?’ Or is this to over-­stretch the 4
conceptual parameters by which articulations of ‘liminality’ and ‘the liminal’ 5
might (should?) otherwise be framed? 6
These are questions that the multi-­disciplinary contributions to this book in 7
their different ways seek to confront. Conceptually, liminality, like landscape, 8
fares none too well if restricted to what we can glean from the OED. So far, so 9
obvious. Yet in approaching landscape through the prism of liminality (and vice 10
versa) a ‘back-­to-basics’ stripping down of the complex and in many ways pleni- 11
tudinous structures of meaning that have coalesced around these concepts might 12
be a fruitful way, for the purposes of this introduction, of taking stock of the 13
‘place’ of the liminal (rhetorically and spatially) in contemporary theory and 14
debate. It is not our intention here to over-­anticipate the rich imbrication of ideas 15
of liminality, space and mobility as explored across and between the disciplinary 16

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fields of study represented in this collection, preferring instead to steer the reader 17
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towards the chapters themselves; it is rather to chart a provisional topography by
which to identify and explore some of the common themes and preoccupations
that present themselves for consideration at this historical moment. In this vein,
the broader intent of Liminal Landscapes is, to borrow from the title of the 2010
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symposium from which this book has evolved, to ‘re-­map the field’ of debates in 22
the social sciences and humanities around concepts of the liminal and liminality. 23
Accordingly, what we set out below is a triangulation, of sorts, between three 24
landscapes – two English and one Welsh – each of which harbours qualities, 25
affects, or characteristics that may in some way be described as ‘liminal’: 26
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Margate beach in Kent, Morecambe Bay in Lancashire, and Mostyn on the Dee 27
Estuary in Flintshire, North Wales. Along the way we identify some of the 28
common theoretical and thematic threads running through the different contribu- 29
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tions to the book. Our rationale for this approach is to purposefully avoid a state-­ 30
of-the-­art appraisal of liminality, or mapping a theoretical overview of the 31
concept, or even tracing its intellectual provenance. Our altogether more cau- 32
tious aim is to sketch a discursive landscape of the liminal, a three-­fold process 33
in which we set out to explore: a) the ways the concept is being applied and the- 34
orised in a contemporary context; b) the inherent spatialities of the liminal; and 35
c) the extent to which current theories of liminality are still anchored in – or 36
perhaps burdened by – some of the foundational ideas in anthropology from 37
which they have developed. The other, more modest aim of this introduction is 38
to chart the evolution of our own process of critical engagement with ideas of 39
liminality; a journey which begins in the seaside resort of Margate. 40
41
42
Dahn to Margate
43
Over a decade ago we used to visit Margate beach on the north-­east coast of 44
Kent for day trips out of London. The town was a popular holiday destination for 45

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 Introduction: re-mapping liminality   3
1 thousands of people until, like many UK coastal resorts, it saw a downturn in its
2 fortunes as a result of the development of cheap charter tourism holidays abroad.
3 Although our visits to Margate were primarily to unwind after a week spent at the
4 academic coal face, the ability to switch off our faculties of critical engagement
5 and resolutely don our leisure hats was often tested by a curiosity with regard to
6 the spectacle on offer in the resort. One of the first things that struck us was the
7 complexity of its marginal nature. Margate is marginal in terms of physical loca-
8 tion on the edge of the land, marginal to holiday-­taking practices in terms of its
9 decline in popularity as a seaside resort, marginal as a cultural landscape in rela-
10 tion to dominant narratives and geographies of nationhood, and marginal in the
11 sense of playing host to groups who are in some way marginalised from the fabric
12 of mainstream society. The dispersal policy introduced as part of the Immigration
13 and Asylum Act in 1999 made it incumbent on authorities to house asylum seekers
14 and refugees in ‘areas in which there is a ready supply of accommodation’2 whilst
15 their applications for leave of stay in the UK were being considered. This particu-
16 larly impacted on the coastal towns of the southern UK given the abundant supply

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17 of hotels and guest house accommodation, but more pointedly the concentration
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of points of entry into the country both in terms of legal and illegal border cross-
ings. Margate was one such destination and attracted a certain amount of notoriety
when in 2003 asylum seekers resident in the Nayland Rock Hotel staged a hunger
strike in protest at the proposal to evict them following their alleged failure to
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22 comply in time to Section 55 of the Asylum, Immigration and Nationality Act
23 2002.3 In this respect Margate was home to marginal people, those on the edge,
24 betwixt and between structures of place and identity.
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45 Figure 1.1  View from Nayland Rock Hotel, Margate, 2003.

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 4   H. Andrews and L. Roberts
The concept of liminality has particular bearing in this context because of its 1
association with marginality, and is brought into sharp focus in relation to 2
coastal areas by Rob Shields (1991). Shields explores the way by which the UK 3
south coast resort of Brighton emerged as a place associated with transgressive 4
behaviours and the carnivalesque. However, in terms of Margate the concept 5
does not neatly transfer from Brighton and the associations of the carnivalesque 6
and ludic are accompanied by tensions in the form of different kinds of power 7
relations and ideas of surveillance. This can best be illustrated with the example 8
of a beach party we observed one afternoon in the summer of 2001. In an exu- 9
berant display of the carnivalesque members of the local asylum community in 10
Margate had hauled giant bass bins onto the beach near to Arlington House, the 11
Brutalist tower block which houses many asylum seekers and refugees and 12
which dominates the seafront skyline. With the speakers thumping inland 13
towards the town the dancers and revellers were also facing landward, many 14
beckoning towards the crowds of curious onlookers who had gathered on the 15
promenade to observe the spectacle, inviting them to join in the party. Behind 16

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the spectators, parked by the central reservation on Marine Terrace, stood a 17
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mobile police CCTV van; its camera, fixed atop a tall telescopic pole ascending
from the roof, was angled down towards the rhythmic sway of partygoers on the
beach. Yes, the beach without doubt qualifies as a ‘liminal landscape’ insofar as
it plays host to the carnivalesque, but by the same token we got the impression
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that the apparent ‘freedoms’ and licence ascribed to the partying migrants were 22
so circumscribed, and subject to such intensive degrees of surveillance and 23
control, that whatever Bakhtinian attributes the beachscape might display, in 24
practice these are rendered all but meaningless. Reflecting on these disparities, 25
the validity of the use of the concept of liminality applied to coastal areas and 26
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beaches was thrown into question; even more so when considered in light of the 27
fact that, notwithstanding Shield’s well-­worked consideration of the term, ‘limi- 28
nality’ had nevertheless become somewhat de-­coupled from its original theoret- 29
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ical underpinnings and dislodged from its anthropological moorings. 30

Around the time of our weekend sojourns to the east Kent resort in the early 31
2000s the film Last Resort (Pawel Pawlikowski 2001) appeared on UK cinema 32
screens to much critical acclaim. A film which was not only shot in Margate, but 33
which also seriously grappled with the liminal experience of migrancy – of sus- 34
pension, limbo, transit, non-­places, marginality, of human ‘matter out of place’ 35
(Douglas 1966) – Last Resort provided an insightful focus of reflection on some 36
of the spatial contradictions and dynamics of liminality; tensions which the eth- 37
nographic example of the beach party had also brought to the fore. In the film, 38
Tanya, a young Russian woman and her son Artiom arrive in Britain from 39
Moscow. Upon questioning and detention by the immigration officials at Stan- 40
sted Airport, Tanya decides to claim asylum. Transported to a ‘designated 41
holding area’ – a bleak seaside town called Stonehaven (in actuality Margate) 42
where they are to be detained pending the outcome of their asylum application – 43
the passage between the airport and ‘resort’ resembles a somewhat grimmer 44
version of the transfer journey undertaken by the tourist under the stewardship of 45

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 Introduction: re-mapping liminality   5
1 the tour-­operator (Andrews 2011: 156; see also 2009: 12). This blurring of travel
2 narratives, like other ironic juxtapositions in the film, presents a microcosmic
3 snapshot of fin de siècle displacement, where the human flotsam of Tony Blair’s
4 Britain rub shoulders with its new outsiders: migrants and refugees from coun-
5 tries such as Afghanistan, Iraq, the former Yugoslavia, Iran, Turkey, Somalia,
6 Sri Lanka.4 Subverting the metonymic signification of the ‘typical’ British
7 seaside resort, Stonehaven/Margate both literally and metaphorically exists as a
8 ‘place on the margin’ (Shields 1991) of nation and identity.
9 As Andrew O’Hagan observes, ‘[Last Resort] is a film about journeys’
10 (2001: 25), yet despite, or because of this, much of what constitutes the action of
11 the central characters is punctuated by long periods of waiting and enforced sed-
12 entariness. Tanya and Artiom are shown waiting in the airport lounge for immi-
13 gration to let them enter the country; waiting for the immigration service to
14 process their asylum claim (and subsequent withdrawal); waiting for the phone
15 box to call Tanya’s fiancé (who she is waiting to be rescued by); and waiting for
16 the tide to rise so as to secure a safe, undetected passage out of the resort. In this

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17 Godot-­like atmosphere, Stonehaven represents the most immediate of quotidian
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constraints on endeavours to establish or attain a sense of place. Prevented from
leaving the holding area, the detainees’ movements throughout the resort are
under constant surveillance and restriction. The railway station is closed ‘until
further notice’, and the grey, imposing presence of the sea provides a natural
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22 barrier of containment and exclusion.
23 Framed in these terms, the liminal landscapes of Stonehaven/Margate –
24 shabby, desolate, marginal (and unequivocally ‘off the map’ of the tourist gaze)
25 – connote less a sense of the carnivalesque – ‘a free zone, betwixt and between
26 social codes . . . a liminal zone of potential carnival’ (Shields 1991: 108–109) –
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27 than an affective zone of stasis (Roberts 2002a: 82–83); a poetics and politics of

28 entropy; a de-­actualising ‘any-­space-whatever’ (Deleuze 1986:  109). As dual
29 snapshots of time and place (Margate in the early 2000s), for us the dialogic
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30 correspondence between the cinematic geographies of the fictional Stonehaven

31 and the ethnographic spaces of Margate brought the contradictory structures of
32 liminality – the dialectics of movement, transition, and stasis – more sharply into
33 play. Which is not to suggest that, as a ‘Margate film’ (if it can be referred to as
34 such), Last Resort is avowedly realist in its depiction of the resort – the director
35 Pawel Pawlikowski notes that ‘the location was chosen because it wasn’t quite
36 real, or real but not real’ (Roberts 2002b:  97) – but rather that, like Margate
37 itself, the film provides an insightful case study for problematising understand-
38 ings of liminality, mobility and space in twenty-­first century Britain.
39 As many of the chapters in this book show, ideas and concepts of liminality
40 have long shaped debates around the uses and practices of space in travel,
41 tourism, and pilgrimage. Victor Turner’s writings on ritual and communitas
42 (1967, 1969, 1982, 1987; Turner and Turner 1978), Graburn’s (1989) theory of
43 tourism as a sacred journey, or Shield’s aforementioned discussion of ‘places on
44 the margin’ have secured a well-­established foothold in theoretical discussions
45 on mobility. The unique qualities of liminal landscapes, as developed by these

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 6   H. Andrews and L. Roberts
and other writers on the subject, are generally held to be those which play host to 1
ideas of the ludic, consumption, carnivalesque, deterritorialisation, and the inver- 2
sion or suspension of normative social and moral structures of everyday life. 3
While these arguments remain pertinent, and their metaphorical appeal ever 4
more attractive, the extent to which liminal spaces provoke counter ideas of 5
social control, terror, surveillance, production and territorialisation, invites an 6
urgent call to re-­evaluate the meanings attached to ideas of the ‘liminal’ in 7
studies of mobility. One aspect of liminality that has become somewhat detached 8
from the term’s application in relation to spaces of pleasure is that of danger. 9
10
11
On Morecambe Sands
12
The sea represents both a natural barrier and a potential threat; a reminder that 13
landscapes, symbolic or otherwise, undergo a process of constant change. 14
Indeed, we need look no further than the vast expanse of sandflats and mudflats 15
at Morecambe Bay on the north-­west coast of England to find an example of a 16

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landscape whose very changeability and unpredictability has taken on wider sig- 17
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nificance following the death of 23 Chinese migrant workers in 2004 who were
trapped by the incoming tide while picking cockles in the Bay. The area is
notorious for its fast moving tides and treacherous quicksand, yet the lucrative
cockle beds have continued to attract low-­paid migrant workers ignorant of, or
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resigned to the dangers posed by this stretch of coastline. This tragic event 22
(dramatised in Nick Broomfield’s 2006 docu-­drama Ghosts) has prompted a 23
sobering re-­assessment of the coastal resort as a site of tourism, leisure, pleasure 24
and consumption. The shifting social geographies associated with these land- 25
scapes has meant that the example of the beach may equally be looked upon as a 26
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space of transnational labour, migrancy, racial tension, death, fear, uncertainty 27

and disorientation. In this instance, the precarious and un-­navigable natural land- 28
scape of Morecambe Sands becomes a metonym for the increasingly de-­ 29
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stabilising landscapes of trans- or post-­national capitalist mobility. Moreover, 30

the settlement of asylum seekers and refugees in UK coastal resorts such as 31
Margate has exposed the underlying tensions and social divisions between repre- 32
sentations that play on the ludic, touristic heritage of these resorts and those 33
which address the marginality and exclusion that characterises the other set of 34
mobilities and meanings evoked by these spaces. 35
It is not the purpose of this introduction to re-­rehearse the discussion of the 36
notion of liminality as it was originally laid out by Arnold van Gennep (1960) 37
and later developed by Victor Turner. This task has already been undertaken in 38
Thomassen’s (2009) lucid paper on the uses and meanings of liminality and the 39
development of these arguments in his chapter in this book. What we would 40
wish to note, however, is that both van Gennep and Turner have discussed ideas 41
of the liminal in relation to ritual practices and the psychosocial processes 42
involved in these. What we are concerned with is the specific landscapes that 43
give rise to practices of liminality, and what characterises these landscapes as 44
liminal. Evidently, as many of the chapters in this book demonstrate, liminal 45

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 Introduction: re-mapping liminality   7
1 landscapes and spaces do exist, many of which are tinged with death, connected
2 to transformation and processes of becoming, and often functioning as sites of
3 artistic practice (Crouch 2010):
4
5 I am interested in liminal places – borderline landscapes, the places in-­
6 between. I live and work on that great seductive sprawl of estuary, More-
7 cambe Bay, which is literally the borderline between earth and sea. The Bay
8 inspires me to tell stories.5
9
10 Made in 2004, the same year as the cockle pickers’ deaths, the film Frozen tells
11 the story of a young woman’s return to Morecambe Bay where her sister had
12 mysteriously disappeared two years earlier. Juliet McKoen, who wrote and
13 directed the film, describes Kath, its central character, as ‘[inhabiting] a border-
14 line world – somewhere in between past and present, living and dying, waking
15 and dreaming, reality and fantasy, sanity and madness’. The site (or sight) of the
16 sister’s disappearance is also framed in terms of the liminal: she vanishes in the

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17 blind spot between two CCTV cameras. The pixellated landscape of the digital
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video footage, endlessly and obsessively replayed by Kath, becomes a transcend-
ent and potentially transformative space of affect. Like the Bay, no less a liminal
landscape, but one that is deterritorialised: time and memory spiralling into ‘a
centrifugal vortex of nonspace’ (Roberts 2012). The haunted spaces of absence
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22 which the low-­resolution images invoke are those ‘whose affective potency lies
23 in the conjunctive irresolvability of time and space’ (ibid.). These and other
24 liminal landscapes incite psychogeographic journeys – quests, pilgrimages, divi-
25 nations, exorcisms, excavations: a cultural archaeology of trauma, hope, or
26 oblivion. Moreover, the liminality of death and oblivion also invites considera-
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27 tion as to the attraction (if that is the right word) of certain landscapes as sites of
28 suicide. Richie Edwards, the missing-­presumed-dead guitarist and co-­lyricist of
29 the Welsh rock band Manic Street Preachers, disappeared without trace in Feb-
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30 ruary 1995. Only declared legally dead in 2008 it is widely assumed that he
31 committed suicide. His car was found at a motorway service station (a quintes-
32 sential non-­place in the terms elaborated by Marc Augé) near to the Severn
33 Bridge, the crossing over the Severn Estuary which marks the border between
34 England and South Wales.6
35 In his book Ghost Milk, the writer Iain Sinclair describes a guided walk he
36 took across Morecambe Bay ‘in quest of other ghosts, the drowned cockle
37 pickers’ (2011:  313). As with Margate, Morecambe exudes something of an
38 ambivalent and contradictory sense of place. For Sinclair, ‘half-­resuscitated,
39 half-­choked on the karma of the drowned Chinese cockle pickers, [Morecambe
40 is] an unresolved argument between entropy and aspiration’ (ibid.:  260–261).
41 Not surprisingly, the uncertain and treacherous topography of Morecambe Sands
42 demands the acquisition (or hire) of local geographical knowledge. An official
43 guide, known as the Sandpilot of Morecambe Bay, leads parties of curious way-
44 farers on a six-­mile trek across the sands. Cedric Robinson, now in his late sev-
45 enties, was appointed as the 25th official Queen’s Guide to the Sands in 1963.7

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 8   H. Andrews and L. Roberts
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Figure 1.2  View towards Morecambe Bay from Grange-over-Sands in Cumbria.
24
25
As Sinclair notes, ‘[the] gnarled prophet . . . marshalled his strung-­out flock with 26
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a whistle . . . [sounding] a shrill blast, to line us up, on the edge of a channel 27
where the sea had rushed in’ (ibid.: 313–314). Indicating to the writer the loca- 28
tion of the cockle picker deaths, the Sandpilot pointed with his stick: ‘[they] 29
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were on a high sandbank with a fast-­flowing river on either side. They had no 30
chance’ (ibid.: 314). 31
The Tarkovskyan, Stalker-­like figure of the guide highlights another common 32
attribute of liminal landscapes insofar as initiates (like Sinclair) are required to 33
place their trust in the knowledge of a ‘ritual elder’ or ‘master of ceremonies’ so 34
as to ensure safe navigation and transit(ion). Analogies here may be drawn with 35
the relationship between psychotherapist and patient, the former often held to be 36
providing a form of ‘ritual leadership’ (Moore 1991:  25). In From Ritual to 37
Theatre, Turner casts the experimental theatre director Jerzy Grotowski in the 38
role of ritual guide-­cum-psychotherapist: ‘Let us create a liminal space-­time 39
“pod” or pilgrimage centre, [Grotowski] seems to be saying, where human 40
beings may be disciplined and discipline themselves to strip off the false perso- 41
nae stifling the individual within’ (1982: 120). It is important to note, however, 42
that the ritual leader is not the master or controller of transformative space. Such 43
space, as Moore observes, ‘cannot be commanded – it can only be invoked’ 44
(1991:  27). As such, liminality ‘is always within a context of containment in 45

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 Introduction: re-mapping liminality   9
1 which the boundaries are not tended by the ego of the individual involved’
2 (ibid.: 29), but nor, by the same token, are they overly determined by the inter-
3 vention of the leader or guide.
4 Insofar as liminal landscapes can only be invoked but not ‘commanded’ (in
5 the military and territorial sense) we might then question the extent to which
6 they are or can be ‘mappable’ in cartographic terms. The requisite geographical
7 knowledge for navigating liminal landscapes is that which is generated and
8 engaged with ritually and experientially: i.e. in practice and in situ. In the words
9 of Tim Ingold, knowledge is ‘ambulatory . . . we know as we go, not before we
10 go’ (2000:  229, 230, emphasis in original). It is not the map, therefore, that
11 guides the initiate through these landscapes, but situated practices of wayfinding:
12
13 Wayfinding depends upon the attunement of the traveller’s movements in
14 response to the movements, in his or her surroundings, of other people,
15 animals, the wind, celestial bodies, and so on. Where nothing moves there is
16 nothing to which one can respond: at such times – as before a storm, or

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17 during an eclipse – the experienced traveller can lose his bearings even in
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familiar terrain.
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But there is also the need for the traveller or wayfarer to attune their bodies to
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22 the movements or transformations that are operative on a much slower and
23 molecular scale: the subtle degradations of landscapes otherwise defined in terms
24 of the absence of movement and vitality; the zones of stasis referred to above;
25 the entropy of industrial decay and economic decline; the sublime patina of
26 ruins, and so on. How, then, do ideas of liminality relate to the ‘deadzones’ of
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27 social, cultural, or economic ‘in-­between-ness’. To explore these and other

28 issues we travel south from Morecambe to the Dee Estuary.
29
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30
Mostyn
31
32 Mostyn is a small village in Flintshire, North Wales. It lies about half a kilo­
33 metre inland from the south side of the River Dee. Running between the village
34 and the foreshore is the A548, the road that links the main built-­up areas along
35 this section of coast. As such the village itself is by-­passed and despite its con-
36 nections to one of the oldest families in Wales – the Mostyn family – and to
37 industrial heritage that has roots in the 1200s (O’Toole 2002), there is little that
38 would draw attention. However, the village is linked to two other key features of
39 this stretch of coast. On the river side of the A548 lies the Port of Mostyn and
40 just over three kilometres upstream at Llanerch-­y-Mor is the Duke of Lancaster
41 ship. These two sites are distinctly different and bring into focus some of the
42 issues that we wish to explore in our consideration of liminality.
43 Patricia O’Toole (2002) has provided a rich and detailed history of Mostyn
44 Port (which also touches on some of the history of the village of Mostyn), noting
45 its development and its various fortunes as it evolved into an important channel

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 10   H. Andrews and L. Roberts
of mobility during the industrial revolution. Its function as an exporter of coal and 1
the links to the iron works that were founded at the site made the port a key pro- 2
vider of employment and industry in the area. At the same time ‘throughout most 3
of the 19th century Mostyn enjoyed some brisk business in the passenger service 4
trade’ (O’Toole 2002:  18), providing a link to Liverpool and the leisure site of 5
New Brighton on the Wirral. In its role of receiving and despatching goods the 6
port is linked into a global network of commodity exchange sending and receiving 7
ships to the Azores, Finland, South Africa, Greece and Italy to name but a few 8
destinations. The port, designed as a NAABSA port,8 has survived the ups and 9
downs of changing technology, the complexities of the shifting sands and channels 10
of the River Dee and its canalisation (see Roberts in this volume), and issues relat- 11
ing to de-­industrialisation, conflicting interests in terms of land use,9 and the 12
changes in the working practices of dock workers as a result of the National Dock 13
Labour scheme. Today it no longer processes passenger services and the main 14
business of the port relates to the off-­shore wind farm industry and the shipping of 15
wings made in the Airbus factory based about 24 kilometres upstream. 16

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The purpose in thinking about the port and sketching some of its history and 17
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present functions is to illustrate that, although it occupies a literal (or indeed lit-
toral) edgeland location, that in itself does not confer the status of liminal. The
port has been and remains a central feature of the landscapes and fortunes of the
local area and beyond. Indeed the practices that the port has facilitated make it
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central to key developments in British history. For example, both Henry Boling- 22
broke (later Henry IV) and Henry Tudor passed through Mostyn Port at key 23
points in their fights for the Crown. The former landed at Mostyn Quay (as it 24
was then known) with troops that marched on Flint Castle and subsequently 25
defeated Richard II. And Henry Tudor evaded capture by Richard III by escap- 26
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ing through Mostyn Quay disguised as a peasant woman (O’Toole 2002). By 27

mining the history of the area and the port’s role within that we can say that the 28
port’s physical location has not detracted from its centrality in the politics of 29
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power struggles or the development of coastal capitalism which places it at the 30

very heart of mainstream socio-­cultural practices. 31
Perhaps to the casual observer passing along the A548 such observations as 32
those made above would go unremarked; access to the port is not ‘free’ (that is, 33
unless one has business there one has no business being there) and the village, as 34
already observed, is by-­passed by the road. What might draw a visitor or cause a 35
passer-­by to stop and stare is the presence of the Duke of Lancaster ship moored 36
further upstream from the port at Llanerch-­y-Mor. The Duke of Lancaster (lat- 37
terly also known as the Mostyn Fun ship) was at one time a car ferry and cruise 38
ship. The ship arrived in the vicinity of Mostyn in 1979 where it was to be con- 39
verted into a floating leisure complex and indoor market. The venture was short-­ 40
lived and no longer operative by the mid-­1980s. The ship remains the property 41
of a north-­west UK based businessman who has been in dispute with the local 42
authority – Flintshire County Council – for a number of years.10 43
The presence of the ship in stasis appears incongruous with the working, 44
fluid, mobile port downstream and yet both are connected by the ebb and flow of 45

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 Introduction: re-mapping liminality   11
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Figure 1.3  The Duke of Lancaster, Llanerch-y-Mor, Flintshire, North Wales.
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22
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24 the River Dee and its sands. It goes without saying that the port relies on the
25 river and it was the river that brought the Duke of Lancaster to its current resting
26 place. The Dee requires dredging to make it navigable, and because of the many
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27 sandbanks it requires careful navigation. Both the Duke of Lancaster and ships
28 for the port needed and require piloting to safety. In addition the sandbanks have
29 been integral to the current resting place of the Duke of Lancaster as upon its
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30 arrival sand was pumped from a bank in the river to around the ship to secure it
31 in place.11
32 When driving along the A548 it is impossible not to notice the hulking pres-
33 ence of The Duke of Lancaster, squatting oddly as it does on the foreshore.
34 Despite its distance from the village of Mostyn the ship’s image is used on the
35 two tourism websites for the village.12 The ship is something of a local curiosity
36 and attracts regular sightseers. It is possible to walk up to the ship but visitors
37 cannot legally board it. However, this has not deterred groups of urban explorers
38 similar to those discussed by Fraser (in this volume). For example, members of
39 28dayslater – The UK UE Urbex Urban Exploration Forums13 – have boarded
40 the ship both during the day and at night, running the risk of being caught by the
41 private security guarding the vessel. The Duke of Lancaster is clearly in a state
42 of decay, streaks of rust run down its sides and hull, and with no apparent
43 purpose or function it is slowly wasting away. The ship is held in suspension: it
44 is betwixt and between the land and the river and its decay doubtless poses a
45 threat to the natural environment in which it is situated.

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 12   H. Andrews and L. Roberts
The Duke of Lancaster thus embodies a number of characteristics which, for 1
the purposes of this introduction, we have provisionally identified as ‘liminal’. 2
First, it occupies a liminal position inasmuch as it straddles the ambivalent border 3
between river and land. Second, the ship exists in a state of suspended transition. 4
Its industrial life cycle has seen it pass through several stages: from passenger liner 5
to static ‘fun ship’ to dereliction and decay to (presumably) eventual scrappage. 6
Third, in its current form the site is attractive as a potential leisure or pleasure zone 7
partly on account of its association with danger and illegality: clambering over the 8
barbed wire fencing to board the ship carries with it the seductive allure of trans- 9
gression but also the threat of injury or death. Danger is also inherent in the ship’s 10
corrosion and disintegration; an environmental ticking time bomb, the rusting 11
behemoth poses the potential threat of pollution and ecological degradation. 12
Fourth, at a micro or molecular scale this very state of entropy at the same time 13
represents a liminal flux of becoming. New organic forms flow, secrete, propagate: 14
tumescent and vascular; lichenous flecks of brown and yellow; rhizomic meander- 15
ings of bindweed, tendril, and root. Micro-­cosmologies effervesce and make them- 16

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selves known to the naked eye, spreading like a canker across the surface of 17
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landscapes otherwise categorised as ‘dead’ or ‘stagnant’. One of the meanings
ascribed to the word stagnant in the OED is fluid ‘that is at rest in a vessel’. The
fluidities and entropic energies that are sustained by and emanate from the malig-
nant colossus of The Duke of Lancaster are most decidedly not at rest. Far from it,
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they are restless, even imperious in their advance, slowly but surely wresting back 22
nature from a degraded vestige of culture. 23
In his afterword, David Crouch makes the connection between liminality, ritual 24
and Buddhism.14 This observation strikes a chord with our foregoing discussion of 25
entropy. In instances where a liminal landscape may be characterised as a ‘zone of 26
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stasis’ the emphasis shifts from reflections on the synchronic attributes of space and 27
place to the subtle variegations of time. In one sense entropy is time insofar as the 28
radical impermanence that forms the core of Buddhist teachings and philosophy 29
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translate to the innate becoming of landscapes conceived of as material and sym- 30

bolic entities undergoing constant processes of change and transformation. We have 31
elsewhere defined a ‘zone of stasis’ as ‘a temporal unfolding of spatial restriction’ 32
(Roberts 2002a: 82) where movement or transition is inhibited. For example, time 33
spent waiting in the departure lounge of an airport or in immigration detention areas 34
(such as the fictional Stonehaven). Dialectically working against this spatially-­ 35
inhibited temporal liminality, ‘zones of transition’ represent the spatial enactment 36
of potentiality and temporal mobility: ‘the unfolding potential of as yet unrealised 37
goals, hopes or desires’ (ibid.: 85). It is important to stress, however, that this more 38
agential space-­time could also be applied to the examples of the airport and the 39
detention centre. ‘Stasis’ or ‘transition’ are not fixed, absolutist properties that are 40
in some way engineered into the architectural DNA of these landscapes (although 41
they could be). Liminal landscapes, in the terms we have sought to elaborate in this 42
introduction, reflect not so much an ontology of ‘liminalness’ (as if we merely need 43
to describe a landscape as liminal in order for it to be liminal). That much, we 44
would suggest, is a given. The imbrications of liminality, landscape, and mobility 45

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 Introduction: re-mapping liminality   13
1 prompt and enact more processual, epistemological and anthropological under-
2 standings of what we might mean by a liminal landscape: in what ways are given
3 landscapes liminal (or liminoid)? How are they liminal? What are the mechanics
4 and processes by which liminalities work or function in relation to landscape? What
5 are the temporal geographies of liminal landscapes? What are the politics of liminal
6 landscapes? What are their effects? These and other questions are variously
7 addressed in the discussions that unfold in and across the chapters of Liminal Land-
8 scapes. In the end, perhaps it is less a question of what makes a landscape liminal
9 that is the issue, but rather the much broader question of what makes a landscape a
10 landscape. Liminality provides a compelling, illuminating and above all productive
11 framework by which to further these theoretical investigations.
12
13
The book
14
15 Liminal Landscapes is organised into four parts, the first of which is ‘Navigating
16 liminality: theory, method, strategy’. The opening chapter by Bjorn Thomassen is

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17 a reflection on the intellectual history of the concept of liminality and a critical
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analysis of the development of its link with the ludic and carnivalesque. To this
end he draws attention to the often missed connection between danger and limi-
nality, a link that other chapters in this book also pick up on. Thomassen also
explores the idea of a ‘permanent liminality’ which arises through the practices
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22 and experiences found in some forms of social setting. Emily Orley further
23 explores themes of practice and experience by linking them to places as anthropo-
24 morphised entities. Ideas of moving through places yet leaving a trace – imprints
25 of a future past – raise questions about our responses to particular places insofar
26 as these are not fixed but liminal and in a constant state of transition and becom-
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27 ing. Orley argues that such an understanding of place invites us to think differ-
28 ently about how we encounter and remember everyday landscapes, a process of
29 re-­envisioning the ethics and aesthetics of place and memory. Emma Cocker’s
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30 chapter again links the concept of liminality with practice. Focusing on the per-
31 formance art of Heath Bunting and Kayle Brandon, Cocker examines a specific
32 kind of liminal landscape: that of the border. Through their work Bunting and
33 Brandon explore a creative response to places characterised by certain dominant
34 ideological expectations in the guise of customs officials, border police and immi-
35 gration officials. The dominant discourses associated with the border are con-
36 tested in the practice of fluidity and porousness invoked by the artists.
37 In Part II, ‘Gleaning and liminality: edgelands, wetlands, estuaries’ the
38 various contributors again examine the importance of the experiential nature of
39 landscape. In this respect Kevin Meethan’s chapter takes the reader on a journey
40 along a stretch of Devon coastline in the south-­west of England. Using photo-
41 graphy as a method of ‘gleaning’ images and traces of the landscape he encoun-
42 ters, Meethan examines the betwixt and between nature of the beach. Through
43 the practice of walking, observing and photographing Meethan draws attention
44 to the rhythms of the beaches and foreshore along the coast of the Exe Estuary,
45 exploring the liminal nature of these landscapes in terms of both their physical

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 14   H. Andrews and L. Roberts
and socio-­cultural structures of liminality. In Chapter 6 Piret Pungas and Ester 1
Võsu discuss the liminality of the bogs and mires that make up a high percentage 2
of the land cover of Estonia. Mires represent liminality in terms of their marginal 3
nature and precarious topography and wetlands environment. However, liminal- 4
ity is understood to have different features and these are presented alongside the 5
embodied practices and knowledges that inform the symbolic geography of 6
mires of which gleaning – gathering, collecting, extracting – is one such activity. 7
By exploring the changing practices and experiences related to mires, Pungas 8
and Võsu chart a rich cultural and historical geography of Estonian mires as 9
liminal landscapes. Les Roberts’ chapter is also rooted and routed in the liminal 10
zones of wetlands, namely the marshes, sandbanks and reclaimed territories of 11
the Dee Estuary which mark the border between Cheshire in England and Flint- 12
shire in North Wales. Roberts explores three interlacing liminalities that define 13
this borderland region: its place betwixt and between national-­cultural bounda- 14
ries of identity; the marginality and ambiguous geographies of its physical land- 15
scape; and the liminal hinterland between the living and the dead, the latter 16

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and-imagined space of embedded memory.
Part III, ‘Urban liminalities: ritual, poesis, experience’, shifts our attention away
from landscapes embedded in rural settings to urban environments. Ivan Costanti-
no’s chapter is based on ethnographic fieldwork undertaken in the Tibetan city of
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Lhasa. Costantino focuses in on a detail of Tibetan life, the ritual circumambulation 22
routes in the pre-­1949 areas of Lhasa that bring together and mark the boundaries of 23
the city as a site of modernity, a site of religious power and pilgrimage, and as a site 24
of tourist consumption. A key element of this chapter (as in many of the others in 25
this volume) is that of practice; it is the actions and dispositions associated with 26
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place which help inform the idea of a landscape as liminal. The experiential nature 27
of liminal landscapes is further explored in Emma Fraser’s chapter by an examina- 28
tion of the practice of urban exploration of (otherwise off-­limits and forbidden) sites 29
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of ruin and decay, such as sewers and tunnels. Such places are infused with risk and 30
danger. Based on periods of participant observation Fraser demonstrates that the 31
practice of urban exploration in places and landscapes that are off the conventional 32
tourist map do nevertheless constitute a form of adventure tourism. The liminal 33
nature of these landscapes is demonstrated in their falling ‘betwixt and between the 34
structural past and structural future’ (Turner 1986:  41). In Chapter 10 Hazel 35
Andrews draws attention to another link between the industrial and the liminal. 36
Focusing on Crosby Beach in north-­west England, Andrews assesses the role that 37
‘Another Place’, an art installation by Antony Gormley, has on the uses of and 38
meanings attributed to the beach from the perspective of visitors drawn to the site 39
by the artwork, as well as local people for whom the beach is part of their everyday 40
experiences. Andrews questions whether geographical location is enough to warrant 41
a landscape being labelled liminal. She suggests that the liminality of a landscape is 42
dependent on who the actors are within that place. She also questions the validity of 43
the concept of the liminal in this particular case suggesting that Victor Turner’s 44
term liminoid is at times more apt. 45

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 Introduction: re-mapping liminality   15
1 Tom Selwyn’s chapter opens the final part of the book: ‘Liminality and nation:
2 marginality, negotiation, contestation’. Selwyn, like Meethan, explores a particular
3 area of the foreshore by foot. In this case the landscape is that which extends along
4 the south-­east coast of England around the ancient town of Rye. Again, by observ-
5 ing and recording the features of this area Selwyn examines the symbolic role that
6 such a place can have in forming a narrative about the nature of contemporary
7 Britain which he argues is one characterised by, amongst others, the defence of the
8 British state, class distinctions, and distinctive individualism, all intermixed with
9 the ideas, values and symbols of seaside holidays. In Chapter 12 Simon Ward
10 examines the cultural geography of the British road movie to discuss the state of the
11 nation. Concentrating on three British set films, Ward examines the marginal char-
12 acteristics of the landscapes depicted in the films as the various protagonists – all
13 people who can be identified as marginal in some way – travel along coastal areas
14 and towards the edge of the land. He concludes by asking what place the different
15 films envision for the marginal in British society and if at the same time the mar-
16 ginal is a landscape conceived as a site for the suspension of normative social struc-

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The first of these, by Anita Howarth and Yasmin Ibrahim, considers the fate of
those migrants, refugees and asylum seekers caught in the so-­called ‘Jungle’
encampment outside Calais. This chapter focuses on the representation of the
people caught in this ‘in-­between’ place of national (un)belonging as well as their
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22 ‘place’ in socio-­legal discourses and British tabloid newspapers. The various narra-
23 tives form a moral discourse which de-­sensitise human suffering associated with
24 immigration. Howarth and Ibrahim conclude that such a process makes immigra-
25 tion in so-­called ‘en-­lightened societies’ a liminal space between rationality and
26 atavism. Chapter 14 by Pietro Deandrea also explores the fate of immigrants; not
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27 those held in suspension but those who have found their way into the UK. Alluding
28 to the reality of the estimated 25,000 enslaved peoples in contemporary Britain,
29 Deandrea explores aspects of such ‘non-­people’ through three fictional works and
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30 situates these alongside the theorising of Giorgio Agamben about concentration

31 camps. Finally, David Crouch’s afterword pulls together some of the conceptual
32 and thematic threads running across the different chapters. Paying close attention to
33 the ways landscape is performed and enacted, and pointing to the problematised
34 nature of ‘landscape’ within recent cross- and multi-­disciplinary debates, Crouch
35 explores the affective and embodied ‘spacings’ of liminality, drawing the fitting
36 conclusion that ‘landscape is full of liminalities’.
37
38
39 Notes
40   1 The anthropologist Victor Turner, whose seminal writings have laid much of the theo-
41 retical foundations for understandings of liminality and ritual, describes liminality as
42 ‘cunicular’ – like being in a tunnel between the entrance and the exit (Turner
1974: 231, quoted in Hall 1991: 35).
43   2 www.legislation.gov.uk/ukpga/1999/33/pdfs/ukpga_19990033_en.pdf. See Section 97
44 (b). (Accessed September 2011).
45   3 http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/kent/2973512.stm (accessed September 2011).

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 16   H. Andrews and L. Roberts
  4 Nationalities representing the highest number of asylum applications to the UK in 1
2000. Source: Home Office statistics reproduced in the Guardian, ‘Welcome to 2
Britain: A Special Investigation into Asylum and Immigration’, June 2001: 22–23.
3
  5 Juliet McKoen, quoted in the press kit for the film Frozen (Juliet McKoen, UK, 2004):
www.movementonscreen.org.uk/pictures/frozen_presskit.pdf (accessed September 4
2011). 5
  6 www.telegraph.co.uk/news/obituaries/3514147/Richey-­Edwards.html (accessed Sep- 6
tember 2011). A service station is also the site of disappearance in George Sluizer’s 7
unsettling film The Vanishing (Spoorloos, Netherlands/France, 1988). In the film a 8
man is haunted by the disappearance of his girlfriend while on holiday together in
France. It is later revealed that she was abducted from the service station and buried 9
alive in a coffin, a fate the man only learns about by experiencing the same horror. A 10
space of transition, the claustrophobic interior of the coffin becomes an inescapable 11
liminal landscape: a space in-­between the worlds of the living and the dead. 12
  7 http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/4628390.stm (accessed September 2011). 13
  8 Not always afloat but safe aground.
  9 O’Toole (2002) describes the issues relating to the contestation surrounding the 14
expansion of the port in relation to environmental issues concerning the Dee Estuary’s 15
significance in terms of wildfowl. 16
10 www.dukeoflancaster.net/page2.html (accessed August 2011).

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11 ibid.
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12 www.stayinwales.co.uk/wales.cfm?village=Mostyn and www.aboutbritain.com/
towns/mostyn.asp (both accessed August 2011).
13 www.28dayslater.co.uk/forums/showthread.php?t=18739 (accessed August 2011).
14 This connection is also noted by the Jungian psychiatrist James Hall in reference to
18
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the traditional Zen ox-­herding pictures, which he describes as ‘an analogy of the inter- 22
action of the ego with the natural mind [or the radical emptiness of Buddha-­nature]’ 23
(1991: 39).
24
25
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