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PRACTISING
HUMAN
GEOGRAPHY
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PRACTISING
HUMAN
GEOGRAPHY
Paul Cloke
Ian Cook
Philip Crang
Mark Goodwin
Joe Painter
Chris Philo
SAGE Publications
London • Thousand Oaks • New Delhi
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© Paul Cloke, Ian Cook, Philip Crang, Mark Goodwin, Joe Painter, Chris Philo 2004
First Published 2004
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or
review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, this publication
may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form, or by any means, only with the
prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction,
in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
Inquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.
SAGE Publications Ltd
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British Library Cataloguing in Publication data
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ISBN 0 7619 7325 7
ISBN 0 7619 7300 1 (pbk)
Library of Congress Control Number 2003108066
Typeset by C&M Digitals (P) Ltd., Chennai, India
Printed in Great Britain by The Cromwell Press Ltd, Trowbridge, Wiltshire
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1 Changing practices of human geography: an introduction 1
PART I CONSTRUCTING GEOGRAPHICAL DATA 35
2 Official sources 41
3 Non-official sources 62
4 Imaginative sources 93
5 Talking to people 123
6 Observing, participating and ethnographies 169
PART II CONSTRUCTING GEOGRAPHICAL INTERPRETATIONS 207
7 Sifting and sorting 215
8 Enumerating 247
9 Explaining 285
10 Understanding 307
11 Representing human geographies 336
12 The politics of practising human geography 364
Summary of Contents

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Preface x
Acknowledgements xvi
1 Changing practices of human geography: an introduction 1
Practising human geography? 1
A thumbnail history of practising human geography 7
Conclusion 31
Notes 32
PART I CONSTRUCTING GEOGRAPHICAL DATA 35
2 Official sources 41
Introduction 41
Types of official information 42
Information and state formation 43
The contemporary informational state 49
Understanding the construction of official information 53
Conclusion 61
Notes 61
3 Non-official sources 62
Introduction 62
Non-official sources in geographical research 63
Critical issues in the use of non-official data sources 68
Conclusion 91
Note 92
4 Imaginative sources 93
Introduction 93
Understanding the construction of imaginative sources 94
Imaginative sources in geographical research 104
Case studies 115
Conclusion 122

Notes
Contents
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Contents
viii
5 Talking to people 123
Introduction 123
The practices of talking to people 126
Questionnairing 130
Interviewing 148
Discussion groups 159
Ethics: an important end note 164
Notes 168
6 Observing, participating and ethnographies 169
Introduction: what is ethnography and how can it be geographical? 169
Geography’s humanistic ethnographies 171
The black inner city as Frontier outpost 173
Geography’s ‘new’ ethnographies 182
Top tips for prospective researchers 195
Conclusion: field-noting 196
Notes 204
PART II CONSTRUCTING GEOGRAPHICAL INTERPRETATIONS 207
7 Sifting and sorting 215
Sitting down with your data 215
What happens when we put things into boxes and make lists 223
A geographical detour into set theory 227
Alternatives and recommendations 240
Notes 245
8 Enumerating 247
Enumeration and human geography 247

Describing, exploring, inferring 253
Modelling spatial processes 264
Geocomputation 271
GIS and spatial analysis 272
The authority of numbers? 277
Notes 284
9 Explaining 285
The complexity of explanation 285
Explanation through laws: geography as spatial science 286
Explanation as causation 288
Intensive and extensive research 289
The search for a revolution in geographical explanation 290
Explanation through abstraction 291
Explanation and subjectivity 295
Explanation and practice 299
Concluding comments: from the explanation of geography
to the geographies within explanation 305
Note 306
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CONTENTS
ix
10 Understanding 307
Introduction 307
Seven modes of understanding 310
Conclusion: between understanding and explanation 335
Notes 335
11 Representing human geographies 336
Introduction 336
The work of writing 337
Presenting research 342

Representation and rhetoric 347
Representation in practice 358
Beyond the book 362
Conclusion 363
Notes 363
12 The politics of practising human geography 364
The ‘personal’ politics of geographical practice 364
The politics of research practice 367
The politics of the academy 370
Ethics, morality and geographical research 374
Notes 375
References 376
Index 409
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x
This book is inspired by these observations from
Linda McDowell, about whom we will say more
in Chapter 1. While written over a decade ago,
they can still be mobilized to frame the concerns
of the present book, recognizing as they do a body
of writing that was starting to accumulate from the
early 1990s as an explicit commentary upon the
research methods deployed by human geographers.
Over the intervening years ‘a greater self-con-
sciousness about research methods’ has therefore
become more commonplace in the literature, lead-
ing to a small industry of textbooks and essays,
some very good, on this theme. Even so, there is
arguably still much more to be done in this respect,
not least to make accessible to a wider audience

many of the complex issues bound up in the very
acts of ‘doing’ or, as we like to term it, the practis-
ing of human geography.
Our purpose in the present book is hence is to
take seriously the many tasks entailed in conduct-
ing research on given processes and problems, cer-
tain types of societies and spaces, and nameable
peoples and places. We wish to ask about what is
involved in such research, how it happens ‘in the
field’, whether a village under an African sky, a
housing estate drenched by Glasgow drizzle or the
seeming safety of a local planning department or
dusty historical archive.We will on occasion query
what precisely is meant by this so-called ‘field’, but
more significantly we will ask about what exactly
it is that we do in field locations: what sources are
we after, what methods are we using in the process,
and how exactly do we manage to extract ‘raw
data’ ready to be taken away for subsequent
detailed interpretation? What kind of interactions
occur here, particularly with the people from
whom we are often trying to obtain information,
whether they be the gatekeepers of sites and doc-
uments that we wish to access or, more signifi-
cantly, the people whose lives in specific spaces and
places we are hoping to research (our ‘research sub-
jects’). And what goes on once we do get the data
back to our office, library or front room: how do
we endeavour to ‘make sense’ of these materials, to
bring a measure of order to them, to begin manip-

ulating them to describe and to explain the situa-
tions under study, to arrive at the cherished goal of
understanding? Moreover, if we get this far, what is
then at stake as we try to write through our find-
ings, to offer our interpretations, and as we pro-
duce accounts which purport to represent peoples
and places more or less different from our own?
Can all this really be as simple as many earlier
human geographers tended to assume? Can it all
be taken for granted, subsumed under headings
such as ‘intuition’ or the enacting of the ‘scientific
method’, and is it genuinely free from any rela-
tionship to the researcher’s own values and beliefs,
ethics and politics? We would want to answer the
latter questions with a definitive no and, as the
book unfolds, to indicate why we suppose this to
be the case by striving to provide answers to many
of the previous questions just raised. In line with
McDowell’s observations, therefore, we are
Preface
In the last few years, there has been an exciting growth of interest in questions about what we
do as human geographers and how we do it. Reflecting the general shift within the social
sciences towards a reflexive notion of knowledge, geographers have begun to question the con-
stitution of the discipline – what we know, how we know it and what difference this makes both
to the type of research we do and who participates in it with us either as colleagues or research
subjects … An intrinsic part of these debates has been a greater self-consciousness about research
methods. (McDowell, 1992a: 399–400)
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convinced that human geographers do need to
become still more self-conscious, more reflexive

and more willing to ‘reflect back upon’ all aspects
of their research practices.
We should underline the specific contribution
that we are aiming to make in this book, then, in
that it is designed to provide human geography
researchers – from the undergraduate to the more
seasoned academic – with an introduction to the
many and varied considerations integral to the
practising of human geography.We are not review-
ing all the near-infinity of possible data sources
open to human geographers, since such an attempt
has already been made (Goddard, 1983) and there
are a number of specialist texts dealing with par-
ticular sources such as censuses, inventories and
published surveys that may be of use to the human
geographer (see various papers in the CATMOG
and HGRG series and also the contributions in
Flowerdew and Martin, 1997). Neither are we
offering a complete ‘cookbook’ of methods, going
systematically through a range of methods in turn
and outlining how to do them, although there will
be moments in what follows where we dwell on
specific methods available for both (as we will say)
constructing geographical data and constructing geograph-
ical interpretations. There are already many such
‘how-to-do’ manuals in the general social science
literature, and there is also something of this char-
acter in several human geography texts.
1
We would

definitely see such texts as complementary to our
own, but having a different feel in their focused
attention on the nuts and bolts of specific methods
through which human geographers both gather
and process data.
It might be noted that numerous older geogra-
phy textbooks lead school children and undergrad-
uate students through hands-on methods of field
survey, land surveying and mapping (e.g.
Dickinson, 1963), but we must admit to regarding
such an interest in what has been termed ‘practical
geography’ (Bygott, 1934) or ‘mathematical geog-
raphy’ (Jameson and Ormsby, 1934) as beyond our
purview.This is less the case with more recent con-
tributions to the use of statistical, mathematical and
GIS procedures in geography, which we do touch
upon in Chapters 7 and 8, but we do not assess
these in technical detail because such treatments
are provided elsewhere by specialist quantitative
and GIS geographers (for references, see Chapters
7 and 8).We would also have to acknowledge, per-
haps controversially, that we do not think that such
developments are central to contemporary human
geography. They undoubtedly generate useful
‘tools’ to be deployed on occasion, and we cer-
tainly applaud the notion of combining quantita-
tive and qualitative methods (see also Hodge, 1995;
Philo et al., 1998), but we do not see how what are
basically technical exercises can be taken as more
than a small part of the larger whole which is the

practising of human geography. Our own prefer-
ences, and maybe prejudices, are of course hinted
at by such a statement (and see below). What we
should also underline at this point is our rejection
of the oft-made assumption that utilising qualita-
tive methods entails a loss of rigour in the research
process, a forsaking of the objective, analytical and
replicable attributes supposedly integral to deploy-
ing quantitative methods within the strictures of
the conventional ‘scientific method’ (see Chapter 9).
We resist the accusation that the route to qualita-
tive methods amounts to a ‘softening’ of human
geography, where ‘softening’ is understood as
weakening and making things easier (e.g.
Openshaw, 1998). We regard such views as flawed
because quantitative work (and science more gen-
erally) is just as shot through with human frailties
and social conditioning as is qualitative work, a
claim increasingly borne out by social studies of
science and technology (e.g. Demeritt, 1996), and
also because it is possible – as we hope to demon-
strate – for qualitative human geography to be
practised in a manner combining its own version
of intellectual rigour with a responsibility to the real-
ities (not merely the academic’s inventions) of the
field beyond the academy.
Our intention is also not to provide a compen-
dium of ‘stories from the field’, relating the experi-
ences of particular human geographers as they have
sought to operationalize substantive research pro-

jects, although we do recognize the great value of
such personalized accounts.
2
We therefore make
some use of such experiential materials at various
points in what follows. Furthermore, our intention is
not to rehearse the complex arguments about either
abstract moral stances or ‘ethical philosophies’ which
might be brought to bear in the discipline (see Sayer
and Storper, 1997; Proctor, 1998; Smith, D., 1994;
1997; 1998), although we are attuned to more specific
issues rooted in the ethics and politics of research prac-
tice (e.g. Mitchell and Draper,1983a; see also Mitchell
and Draper, 1983b). This is especially true with
respect to claims about the ‘positionality’ of the
researcher, ones which talk about researchers need-
ing to reflect self-critically on the power relations
running between them and their research
Preface
xi
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Preface
xii
subjects, and we introduce such claims in Chapter 1
and then throughout many of the following
chapters.
Neither is our immediate aim to show how
practical dimensions of research link with more
conceptual orientations, the latter being identified
by such daunting terms as ‘positivism’, ‘Marxism’,

‘humanism’, ‘feminism’, ‘postcolonialism’, ‘post-
structuralism’, ‘postmodernism’ and the like. A
handful of works do prioritize this linkage, notably
Hoggart et al. (2002) in their attempt to tease out
the role of epistemological differences – meaning
variations in the concepts adopted by different
researchers in their attempt to arrive at reliable
knowledge about the world – as key influences on
what can be achieved in the researching of human
geography. Something similar certainly is offered
on occasion in the book (giving a link back to a
prior text by Cloke et al., 1991; see also Robinson,
1998; Winchester, 2000; Shurmer-Smith, 2002a),
and we would insist that some familiarity with the
discipline’s recent theoretical concerns is essential
to the self-critical practice of research being urged
here. None the less, we will seek to introduce con-
cepts in as gentle a fashion as possible, trying not to
assume too much prior knowledge on the part of
the reader, and we should make clear that the book
arises from six different authors who are themselves
differently persuaded (or dissuaded) by the merits of
different conceptual orientations. If there is a com-
monality between us in this regard, it lies in a con-
viction that the overall conceptual landscape of
contemporary human geography is a healthy one,
and that there are now available all manner of excit-
ing concepts to guide researchers in their practical
enquiries. Such concepts must remain as ‘guides’,
since integral to the whole ethos of this book is the

suggestion that researchers should always be reflecting
self-critically on every component of their research,
concepts included. If given concepts do not appear
to ‘perform’ well in helping the researcher to get to
grips with the particularities of an issue, situation,
space, place or whatever, then they should be revised
or abandoned. (We do realize, though, that recog-
nizing whether or not a concept ‘performs’ well in
this respect is not quite as simple as such a remark
might imply.)
From the above listing of what the book is not,
we hope that an impression may be emerging of
what it actually is. It is, then, a book that – draw-
ing upon experiences of research, contemplating
the ethics and politics of research, and insisting on
seeing research practices in the context of wider
conceptual orientations – does aim to stand back a
little from the hurly-burly of getting actual research
projects planned and executed. It wants to inject a
pause in the battling with logistics, officials, respon-
dents, tape-recorders, statistical tests, software pro-
grams and the like, even though such everyday
things at the ‘coal face’ of research will be men-
tioned repeatedly. It wants instead to ponder
arguably deeper questions about the why, how,
what, when and where of the research process,
probing more fully into precisely what it is that
researchers are searching for and aiming to work
upon (this ‘stuff ’ called data), and then discussing the
differing strategies for ‘making sense’ of these data

(for forcing them to ‘make sense’) and for convert-
ing them into written-through accounts, findings
and conclusions for various audiences (from the dis-
sertation marker to the academic conference
participant). It is indeed to explore at some length
the dynamics of practising human geography and, in
so doing, to offer something distinctive which is
neither a treatise on theory in the discipline nor a
‘how to do it’ manual for disciplinary practitioners,
but rather a theoretically informed reflection on the
many different twists and turns unavoidably present
in the everyday ‘doing of it’. Moreover, in part
exploring these dynamics should help to inform us,
and our readers, when critically reading the writ-
ten-through research of others.
The chapters that follow take different cuts at
this goal, and they differ in how they do this
according to the specific concerns of the chapter,
the contents of the relevant pre-existing literature,
and the particular competencies, interests and the-
oretical predispositions of the author(s) who have
had prime responsibility for each chapter
(although we are not going to tell you who did
what!). We willingly acknowledge that there is
some unevenness between the chapters, some
overlaps, doubtless some omissions, a few varia-
tions in emphasis, even a few differences of opin-
ion, but such inconsistency is also very much part
of both the ‘real’ human geography (of the world)
under study and the ‘real’ human geographers

(from the academy) who struggle to study it.
A ‘map’ of the book
Following this Preface, Chapter 1 sets the scene for
the rest of the book by sensitizing readers to the
different ways in which human geography can be
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practised, first by contrasting the extremes of
practice by two semi-fictional human geographers
(‘Carl’ and ‘Linda’) and, secondly, by sketching out
a thumbnail history of changing practices within
the ‘doing’ of (human) geography.While not wish-
ing to imply that older practices were entirely mis-
taken and have nothing still to teach us, we are
critical of the extent to which earlier geographers
tended to regard the research process as relatively
unproblematic, as either the ‘natural’ way of pro-
ceeding for individuals gifted with geographical
insight or the ‘logical’ way of proceeding if obeying
the basic rules of conventional science. In the course
of the chapter we introduce a number of key terms
which are utilized throughout the book – terms
such as ‘research’,‘field’,‘data’,‘methodology’ and the
like – and we also introduce several key themes to
do with the heightened attention which human
geographers are now showing (rightly, in our view)
to the complexities involved in both the ‘field’ and
the ‘work’ elements of ‘fieldwork’.
The heart of the book is divided into two parts,
and we propose a division between two funda-
mentally different sets of practices relating to the

treatment of human geographical data. By this phrase
we simply mean data (in the plural) which have
been, are now and could in future be used by
human geographers, and it does not necessarily
mean data which are obviously related to space,
place, environment and landscape (the staple big
concerns of academic geography: see Hubbard
et al., 2002; Holloway et al., 2003), although in the
vast majority of cases such geographical references
will be involved somewhere (see Chapter 7). It
should be noted too that we will often speak of
‘geographical data’ rather than of ‘human geo-
graphical data’, but this is merely to avoid the
somewhat cumbersome appearance of the latter
term, and throughout the book we will almost
always mean specifically data pertaining to human
or social dimensions of the world. Our discussion
will be of little immediate relevance to physical
geographers, except in so far that there are overlaps
in Chapter 1 with the history of changing practices
within the ‘doing’ of physical geography.We should
additionally emphasize that at every turn in the
book our concern is for processes of construction:
accenting that data, how we come by them, and all
the many procedures which we then operate upon
them, from the most basic of sorting to the most
complex of representations, are all in one way or
another constructions found, created and enacted
by ‘us’ (human geography researchers) as people
living and working within specific economic,

political, social and cultural contexts.There is noth-
ing natural here; nothing straightforwardly pre-
given, preordained or untouched by human
emotions, identities, relations and struggles.
Part I is entitled ‘Constructing geographical data’,
and here we tackle two very different varieties of
data: first, those data which are ‘preconstructed’ by
other agencies (governments, companies, journalists,
poets and many more: see Chapters 2–4) and from
which human geographers can then extract materi-
als relevant to their own projects; and, secondly,
those data which are ‘self-constructed’ through the
active field-based research of human geographers
themselves (when using methods such as question-
nairing, interviewing, observing and participating:
see Chapters 5 and 6). In the first instance, the focus
is very much on how these sources are constructed,
on the many different contexts, influences and
forces embroiled in the putting together of such
sources, which can be both purportedly ‘factual’ (as
in parliamentary reports or news footage) and seem-
ingly ‘fictional’ (as in novels or films). (We are cer-
tainly aware that there is no clear separation
between paying attention to how sources are con-
structed and then trying to interpret what they are
telling us, underlining that the boundary between
our Parts I and II is not a hard and fast one.) In the
second instance, the focus is much more on the roles
played by researchers when in the field, and begins
to ask about the methods which can be utilized to

gain a window on the lives of research subjects, par-
ticularly by talking or spending time with them.
Quite specific questions hence arise about such
methods, about how practically to put them into
operation, but so too do a host of questions about
the relations which inevitably run between
researchers and the researched, thus prompting care-
ful reflection on matters of power, trust, responsibil-
ity and ethics (in short, on the micro-politics of
engaged research). In addition, we appreciate that
even at this stage of research human geographers in
the field will begin to write about that field, noting
down preliminary findings, their personal experi-
ences and their thoughts on how the research is
going and on their interactions with research sub-
jects. In Chapter 6 we briefly discuss this often
unremarked feature of the initial research process. It
is in the course of such jottings that the seeds of
more developed interpretations start to emerge, and
it is also at this stage that the ‘textualization’ of our
research – the conversion of it into written forms
for wider audiences – begins to occur.
PREFACE
xiii
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Preface
xiv
Part II is entitled ‘Constructing geographical
interpretations’, so as to stress that what we are talk-
ing about now is indeed still very much a creative

act of construction, of making something, and is
assuredly not some magical process whereby inter-
pretations drop fully formed out of data. What we
are terming ‘interpretation’ covers various strategies
through which human geographers endeavour to
‘make sense’ of their data, the so-called ‘raw data’
which they have collected or generated in one way
or another, and thereby to provide accounts, arrive
at findings and posit conclusions. Somewhat hesi-
tantly, we distinguish between five interpretative
strategies that could be conceived of as being com-
plementary, but some of which in practice often
end up being positioned as antagonistic by
researchers with particular investments in claiming
one strategy as fundamentally superior to another.
The ‘wars’ between such strategies is an underlying
theme of these chapters, although in large measure
we feel such wars to be unhelpful and even an
unnecessary distraction from what ought to be the
higher goals of arriving at good interpretations.The
first of our strategies, which we simply term ‘sifting
and sorting’ (Chapter 7), cannot avoid being present
in any study, even if it is rarely given explicit con-
sideration, and it entails the basic activities through
which a measure of order is imposed on raw data
by the identifying of relevant entities in, to use a
shorthand, ‘lists and boxes’. The second strategy,
which we term ‘enumerating’ (Chapter 8), is
inevitably a follow-on from sifting and sorting, and
it entails the whole panorama of numerical meth-

ods which are commonly utilized to measure prop-
erties of distributions and to detect patterns within
data sets. In this chapter we deal with techniques of
numerical analysis which have until recently been
taken as the core of geographical interpretation, but
which we reckon warrant less special consideration
than has usually been the case. Although many will
not agree, we regard enumeration as essentially a
descriptive activity, describing quantitative data sets,
their differences from one another and possible
relationships, in a manner that requires further steps
to be taken in translating back from the formal
vocabularies of statistics, mathematics and comput-
ing into the ordinary languages familiar to most
readers. Only when such translation occurs can it be
said that the research has shifted from description to
something that we, and many if not all other
philosophers of science, would accept as something
more clearly explanatory.
Our third strategy is therefore what we term
‘explaining’ (Chapter 9), where we consider what
has been the prevailing objective of so much
human geography raised in a ‘scientific’ vein,
whether the science be that of a Newton, a Freud
or a Marx, wherein successful interpretation (and
here the term ‘analysis’ is often heard) involves
being able to answer ‘why’ questions by specifying
the causal processes combining to generate partic-
ular human geographical phenomena. Our fourth
strategy, which we term ‘understanding’ (Chapter 10),

points to what has recently become a more popu-
lar approach with human geographers inspired by
the humanities and cultural studies, wherein suc-
cessful interpretation involves being able to eluci-
date the meanings that situated human beings hold
in regard to their own lives and that inform their
actions within their own worldly places. In addi-
tion, we appreciate the range of debates which
have recently raged over the so-called ‘crisis of
representation’, the deep worries about what
exactly happens when academics start to write or
to lecture about peoples and places other than
their own, and in Chapter 11 we review some of
the conventions, rhetorics and other considerations
arising as human geographers seek to represent
their interpretations to different audiences. Just as
all studies cannot avoid containing a moment of
sifting and sorting, so all studies, unless never writ-
ten through in any form, cannot but include and
usually culminate in acts of representation.We can
regard representation as an interpretative strategy
in its own right, if being itself fractured by many
different assumptions about the relations running
between ‘word and world’, but in other respects
we prefer to regard it as a moment that indeed
crops up as an adjunct to the various practices out-
lined in all of the earlier chapters (including those
in Part I of our book).
Finally, we bring things to a close in a chapter
(Chapter 12) picking out a particular strain of

themes which have been present, albeit not all
that expressly tackled, within the preceding
chapters. Building upon comments in Chapter 1
about the values of the researcher, notably those
with an obvious political edge, this chapter
explores the politics of practising human geogra-
phy, reviewing in particular the thorny questions
which surface once researchers begin to reflect
upon the entangled politics influencing their
decisions about topics to study, data sources to
consult and field methods to deploy, and then
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interpretative strategies to bring to bear on the
data derived. Here we pay attention to the poli-
tics of the research process itself, notably with
respect to the often highly uneven power rela-
tions traversing the social realm, the academy and
everyday lives that cannot but contextualize this
process, energizing but also sometimes constrain-
ing a researcher as he or she initiates and seeks to
pursue his or her preferred practices of data con-
struction and interpretation.While not suggesting
that all researchers should nail their politics
clearly to the mast – many of us may not be so
certain about our politics and may prefer to allow
them to change according to context – we are in
no doubt that practising human geographers
should offer at least some self-critical reflection
on their own, if we can put it this way, ‘political
investment’ in the projects which they conduct.

Paul Cloke
Ian Cook
Phil Crang
Mark Goodwin
Joe Painter
Chris Philo
All over the place, 2003
Notes
1 In the general social science literature see,
for example, Blunt et al. (2003), Burgess
(1984) and May (1997). For human geogra-
phy texts see, in particular, Lee (1992), Rogers
et al. (1992), Cook and Crang (1995),
Flowerdew and Martin (1997), Lindsay
(1997), Robinson (1998), Hay (2000), Kitchin
and Tate (2000), Limb and Dwyer (2001) and
Hoggart et al. (2002).
2 See, for example, Eyles (1988a); see also sev-
eral pieces in Eyles and Smith (1988), Nast
(1994), Farrow et al. (1997), Flowerdew and
Martin (1997) and Limb and Dwyer (2001).
PREFACE
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We have accumulated a mass of debts over the (far too) many years that this book has been in
gestation and preparation, and we cannot begin to acknowledge all or even many of them. What we
will do, though, is to say a massive thank you to Robert Rojek at Sage for the patience of Job (and
then some) in waiting for the disorganized rabble that is the authorial team of this book to get its act
together. More particularly, we want to thank David Kershaw for his great contribution to the copy-
editing process: his efforts have certainly helped to bring some more discipline to proceedings, and

the book has been much improved as a result. Finally, we would like to thank all those at Sage who
have been involved in the final production of the book for their hard work in getting the final product
to look as attractive (and coherent!) as (we hope that) it does.
Every effort was made to obtain permission for Figures 1.1 and 1.3 and for Box 1.6.
The following illustrations were used with the kind permission of:
Allyn & Bacon (Boxes 5.5, 8.5)
Andrew Sayer (Table 5.1, Figures 9.2 and 9.3)
Association of American Geographers (Figures 9.6 and 9.7)
Blackwell Publishers (Box 7.3 and Figure 7.3)
Cambridge University Library (Figure 4.3)
Cambridge University Press (Figures 7.1 and 7.2)
Continuum International Publishing (Box 5.2)
Meghan Cope (Box 10.1)
The Countryside Agency (Table 8.1)
Paul du Gay (Figure 4.1)
Elsevier Science (Figures 9.8, 9.9)
Hodder Headline plc (Figures 8.3, 8.4, Box 8.9, Figure 9.1)
John Wiley & Sons (Box 8.7)
Mansell Collection (Figure 3.6)
Linda McDowell (Figure 1.2)
The National Gallery (Figure 4.5)
Nelson Thornes (Box 7.2)
Open University Press (Box 5.1)
Pearson Education Ltd (Box 8.6, Figure 8.2)
Philips Maps (Figure 1.4)
Pion Ltd (Box 8.3)
Syracuse University Press (Figure 5.1)
Taylor & Francis Books Ltd (Figure 4.2, Table 5.2, Figure 5.3, Boxes 5.3, 5.4, 5.7, 8.8)
Verso (Figure 3.7)
W.W. Norton & Co. (Box 8.4)

xvi
Acknowledgements
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Practising
human geography?
Let us begin by imagining two different
human geographers, one we will call Carl and
the other Linda. Both these are human geo-
graphers who believe that at least part of what
human geography entails is the actual ‘practis-
ing’ of human geography: the practical ‘doing’
of it in the sense of leaving the office, the
library and the lecture hall for the far less cosy
‘real world’ beyond and, in seeking to
encounter this world in all its complexity, to
find out new things about the many peoples
and places found there, to make sense of what
may be going on in the lives of these peoples
and places and, subsequently, to develop ways
of representing their findings back to other
audiences who may not have enjoyed the
same first-hand experience. Both of them are
enthralled, albeit sometimes also a little
daunted, by everything that is involved in this
practical activity. Both of them are convinced
there is an important purpose in such activity,
both because it enriches their own accounts
and because it can produce new ‘knowledge’
which will be eye-opening, thought-provoking
and perhaps useful to other people and agen-

cies (whether these be other academics,
students, policy-makers or the wider public).
For both of them, too, this practical activity
is something they usually find enjoyable,
fun even, and both of them would wish to
communicate this importance and enjoyment
of practising human geography to others.Yet
Carl and Linda go about things in rather dif-
ferent ways, and it is instructive at the outset
of our book to consider something of these
differences.
For Carl, the approach is one which does
very much involve packing his bags, leaving
his home, locking the office door and heading
out into the ‘wilds’ of regions probably at
some distance from where he normally lives
and works. In so doing he tries, for the most
part, to forget about all the aspects of his life
and work tied up with the home and the
office: to forget about his social and institu-
tional status as a respected member of the
community and senior academic, to forget
about his relationships with family, friends and
colleagues, to forget about the books, reports
and newspapers which he has been reading,
and to forget about the concerns, troubles,
opinions, politics, beliefs and the like which
usually nag at him on a day-to-day basis. In
addition, he is determined to leave with an
open mind, with as few expectations as pos-

sible, and even with no specified questions to
ask other than some highly generalized
notions about what ought to interest geogra-
phers on their travels. Instead, his ambition is
The Changing Practices of Human
Geography: An Introduction
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to become immersed in a whole new collection
of peoples and places, and to spend time
simply wandering around, gazing upon and
participating in the scenes of unfamiliar
environments and landscapes. He might
occasionally be a little more proactive in chat-
ting to people, perhaps farmers in the fields as
he passes, and sometimes he might even count
and measure things (counting up the numbers
of houses in a settlement or fields of terraced
cultivation, measuring the lengths of streets or
the dimensions of fields). From this engage-
ment, as Carl might himself say, the regions
visited begin to ‘get into his bones’: he starts
to develop a sense of what the peoples and
places concerned ‘are all about’, a feel which
is very much intuitive about how everything
here ‘fits together’ (notably about how the
aspects of the natural world shape the rhythms
of its cultural counterpart or overlay), and an
understanding of how the local environments
work and of why the local landscapes end up

looking like they do.The impression is almost
of a ‘magical’ translation whereby, for Carl,
meaningful geographical knowledge about
these regions is conjured from simply being in
the places concerned, formulated by him as
the receptive human geographer from activi-
ties which are often no more active than a
stroll, the drawing of a sketch, the taking of a
photograph and the pencilling of a few notes.
And the magical translation then continues,
perhaps on return to his office, when Carl
begins to convert his thoughts into written
texts for the edification and education of
others, and through which his particular feel
for the given peoples and places is laid out
either quite factually or more evocatively.
Taken as whole, this is Carl’s practising of
human geography.
For Linda, the approach is arguably rather
more complicated. She is much less certain
about being able to manage a clean break
from her everyday world as anchored in her
home, her office and her own social roles and
responsibilities, nor from her prior academic
reading, and nor from the accumulated bag-
gage of assumptions, motivations, commitments
and formalized intellectual ideas which swirl
around in her head. Moreover, her research
practice, her fieldwork, may not take her
physically all that far away from the home or

her office: she might end up researching peo-
ples and places that are almost literally just
next door, or at least located in the estates,
shopping centres, business premises and so on,
in a nearby city. The separation of everyday
life from the field, the regions under study,
which Carl can achieve, is not possible for
Linda: indeed, it is also a separation about
which she might be critical. And, whereas
Carl aims to go into the field as a kind of
‘blank sheet’, Linda’s approach depends on
having a much more defined research agenda
in advance, not one that entirely prefigures
her findings but one that will incorporate def-
inite research questions based around a num-
ber of key issues (perhaps connected to prior
theoretical reading). Like Carl, though, she
does wish to become deeply involved with
particular peoples and particular places
(which might be very specific sites such as ‘the
City’, London’s financial centre and its com-
ponent buildings, rather than the much larger
regions visited by Carl). She does want to get
to know the goings-on in these micro-worlds,
to become acquainted with many of the indi-
viduals found in these worlds and to try as
hard as possible to tease out the actions, expe-
riences and self-understandings of these indi-
viduals in the course of her research. The
implication is that what she does is very much

‘hard graft’ research, since she has to be
extremely proactive in deploying specific
research tools – perhaps questionnaires, but
more likely a mixture of documentary work,
interviewing and participant observation (all
of which will be covered in our book) – so as
Practising human geography
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This term describes the overall process of investigation which is undertaken on particu-
lar objects, issues, problems and so on. To talk of someone conducting research in
human geography is to say he or she is ‘practising’ or ‘doing’ his or her discipline, but
it also carries with it the more specific sense of a sustained ‘course of critical investiga-
tion’ (POD, 1969: 703) designed to answer specific research questions through the
deployment of appropriate methods. The ambition is to generate findings which can
be evaluated to provide conclusions, and usually for the whole exercise to be reported
to interested audiences both verbally and in writing. It contains, too, the suggestion
that the exercise will be conducted in a manner critical of its own objectives, achieve-
ments and limitations, although we will argue that, by and large, human geographers
have been insufficiently self-critical in this respect. The term ‘research’ is now very
widely used in the discipline (e.g. Eyles, 1988a), and its relative absence from earlier
geographical writing suggests that geographers prior to c. the 1950s and 1960s were
less attuned to the notion of producing geographical knowledge through premedi-
tated and structured procedures.
Box 1.1: Research
to generate a wealth of data which will enable
her to arrive at specific interpretations per-
taining to the issues (or, to put in another way,
at clear answers to her initial research ques-
tions).There is perhaps less the magical qual-

ity of Carl’s approach, therefore, in that the
labour allowing Linda to complete her
research is much more evident and probably
rather more bothersome, wearisome and even
upsetting. The labour also continues to be
apparent at the writing-up stage in that Linda
reckons it vital to include sections explicitly
on the methodology of the research, including
notes on its pitfalls as well as its advantages,
alongside debating at various points the extent
to which someone like her – given just who
she is, her social being and academic status –
can ever genuinely find out about, let alone
arrive at legitimate conclusions regarding, the
issues, peoples and places under study.Taken as
a whole, this is Linda’s practising of human
geography: it differs enormously from Carl’s.
You should notice that several terms in the
last paragraph are italicized, and Boxes 1.1–1.4
define and expand upon the meanings of
these terms.They are crucial to the book, and
you should ensure that you understand them
before proceeding. They are also crucial to
our introduction, which will now continue
by making Carl and Linda more real.We have
talked about them so far as fictional characters
through which we could illustrate different
approaches to the practising of human geo-
graphy, but we should also admit to having in
mind two real human geographers, one past

and one living, who are Carl Sauer and Linda
McDowell. Carl Sauer (see Figure 1.1) was a
geographer based for virtually all his career in
the Berkeley Department in California, and
his chief interests lay in the ‘cultural history’ of
long-term inter-relationships between what
he termed the ‘natural landscape’ and the ‘cul-
tural landscape’, and in teasing out distinctive
patternings of human culture as revealed in
the mosaic of different material landscapes
produced by different human activities (agri-
cultural practices, settlement planning, reli-
gious propensities).
1
For the most part, Sauer
disliked statements about both theory and
methodology (although see Sauer, 1956), and
he tended to regard the practising of human
geography (and indeed of geography more
CHANGING PRACTICES OF HUMAN GEOGRAPHY
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This deceptively simple term – the field – normally refers to the particular location
where research is undertaken, which could be a named region, settlement, neigh-
bourhood or even a building, although it can also reference what is sometimes called
the ‘expanded field’ (as accessed in a few studies) comprising many different locations
spread across the world (see also Driver, 2000a; Powell, 2002). We would include here,
too, the libraries and archives wherein some researchers consult documentary sources,
which means that we are also prepared to speak of historical geographers researching
‘in the field’. In addition, we suggest that the field should be taken to include not only

the material attributes of a location, its topography, buildings, transport links and the
like, but also the people occupying and utilizing these locations (who will often be the
research subjects of a project). As such, the human geographer’s field is not only a
‘physical assignation’, but it is also a thoroughly ‘social terrain’ (Nast, 1994: 56–7), and
some feminist geographers (e.g. Katz, 1994) have extended this reasoning to insist that
a clean break should not be seen between the sites of active research and the other
sites within the researcher’s world (a claim elaborated at the close of this chapter). This
being said, we do wish to retain some notion of the field as where research is practi-
cally undertaken, but we fully agree that fieldwork must now be regarded as much
more than just a matter of logistics. Instead, fieldwork should be thought of as encom-
passing the whole range of human encounters occurring within the uneven social ter-
rain of the field, in which case it is marked as much by social ‘work’ as by the
practicalities of getting there, setting up and travelling around.
Box 1.2: Field
Practising human geography
4
‘Data are the materials from which academic work is built. As such they are ubiquitous.
From passenger counts on transport systems to the constructs used in the most abstract
discussion, data always have a place’ (Lindsay, 1997: 21). Data (in the plural) hence
comprise numberless ‘bits’ of information which can be distilled from the world
around us and, in this book, we tend to think of data, or perhaps ‘raw data’, as this
chaos of information which we come by in our research projects (whether from the
physical locations before us, the words and pictures of documentary sources, the state-
ments made in interviews and recorded in transcripts, the observations and anecdotes
penned in field diaries, or whatever). As we will argue, a process of construction
necessarily occurs as these data are extracted from the field through active research,
ready for a further process of interpretation designed to ‘make sense’ of these data (to
substitute their ‘rawness’ with a more finished quality). Various kinds of distinction are
made between different types of data (see also Chapter 7), the most common of which
is that between primary and secondary data. The former is usually taken as data gen-

erated by the researcher, while the latter is usually taken as data generated by another
person or agency, but we restate this particular distinction in terms of self-constructed
and preconstructed data (see also the Preface and below). For us, therefore, primary
data should be taken to include everything which forms a ‘primary’ input from the
field into a researcher’s project (i.e. anything which he or she has not him- or herself
yet interpreted). These data can include highly developed claims made in a govern-
ment report or well-thought-out opinions expressed by an interviewee, in effect inter-
pretations provided by others, but they remain primary data for us because the
researcher has not yet begun to interpret them. We do not really operate with a notion
of secondary data, therefore, except in so far as we might reserve this term for the
interpretations of primary data contained in the scholarly writings of other academics.
Box 1.3: Data
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‘In the narrowest sense, [methodology is] the study or description of the methods or
procedures used in some activity. The word is normally used in a wider sense to include
a general investigation of the aims, concepts and principles of reasoning of some dis-
cipline’ (Sloman, 1988: 525). On the one hand, then, there are the specific methods
which a discipline such as human geography deploys in both the construction and the
interpretation phases of research (including such specific techniques as measuring,
interviewing, statistical testing and coding). On the other hand, there is the method-
ology of a discipline such as human geography that entails the broader reflections and
debates concerning the overall ‘principles of reasoning’ which specify both how ques-
tions are to be posed (linking into the concepts of the discipline) and answers are to
be determined (pertaining to how specific methods can be mobilized to provide find-
ings which can meaningfully relate back to prior concepts). For some writers (including
geographers: e.g. Schaefer, 1953; Harvey, 1969) there is little distinction between
methodological discussion and what we might term ‘philosophizing’ about the basic
spirit and purpose of disciplinary endeavour, but we prefer to regard methodology in
the sense just noted, and hence as a standing back from the details of specific meth-
ods in order to see how they might ‘fit together’ and do the job required of them. In

this sense, our book is most definitely a treatise on methodology.
Box 1.4: Methodology
generally) as something fairly obvious,
coming ‘naturally’ to those who happened to
be gifted in this respect. Linda McDowell (see
Figure 1.2) is a geographer presently based at
University College London, and her chief
interests lie in the insights that feminist geo-
graphy can bring to studies of ‘gender divisions
of labour’ as these both influence the spatial
structure of the city and enter into the day-
to-day gendered routines of paid employment,
in the latter connection paying specific atten-
tion to senior women employed in the London-
based financial sector.
2
While McDowell has
not written extensively about methodology,
she has contributed significantly to the
debates currently arising in this connection
(see 1988; 1992a; 1999: ch. 9), and it is appar-
ent that for her the practising of human geo-
graphy is something necessitating considerable
‘blood, sweat and tears’.
Our reasons for now fleshing out the
human geographers who are ‘Carl’ Sauer and
‘Linda’ McDowell are various and, at one
level, simply emerge from a wish to emphasize
that human geography is always produced by
individual, flesh-and-blood nameable people

whom you can see and perhaps meet. They
could be you! But at another level, the differ-
ences between ‘Carl’ Sauer and ‘Linda’
McDowell are highly relevant to the broader
arguments which we are developing in this
introductory chapter. Indeed, in what follows
we take Sauer and McDowell as exemplars of
two very different ways of practising human
geography which ‘map’ on to, respectively,
older and newer versions of human geo-
graphical endeavour that can be identified
within the history of the discipline. We must
be circumspect about such a mapping: a
Sauer-esque approach is still very much with
us today, partly in the continuing works of
regional synthesis and description carried out
by many who regard this as the highest expres-
sion of the ‘geographer’s art’ (Hart, 1982; Meinig,
1983; Lewis, 1985); while a McDowell-esque
approach does have its historical antecedents
in the use of certain clearly defined methods,
such as questionnaires and interviews, long
CHANGING PRACTICES OF HUMAN GEOGRAPHY
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before the current eruption of interest in
putting such methods at the heart of human
geographical research (see below). Yet, we
believe that there is still some truth in the
proposed mapping, and that a profound

change has occurred in how human geogra-
phers envisage and proceed with their practis-
ing of academic research: a change which can
be indexed by contrasting the likes of Sauer
and McDowell. By the same token, we wish
to resist the impression that older approaches
are bad whereas newer approaches are good,
an impression readily conveyed by ‘presentist’
accounts which project a narrative of things
steadily improving, progressing even, from a
worse state before to a better state now. This
means that we still find there is much of value
in an older Sauer-esque orientation, in the
Practising human geography
6
Figure 1.1 Carl Ortwin Sauer
Source: From Leighley (1963: frontispiece)
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ideal of suspending one’s everyday and acade-
mic concerns in the process of becoming
immersed in the worlds of very different
peoples and places, and in no sense are we
seeking to encourage an ‘armchair geography’
unaffected by the wonderment, hunches and
ideas which strike the human geographer in
the field. Yet it would be wrong to deny that
we are more persuaded by McDowell than we
are by Sauer, and that the basic purpose of our
book is very much inspired by the likes of
McDowell – complete with her insistence on

the labour, messiness and myriad implications
of actual research practices, all of which must
be carefully planned, monitored, evaluated
and perhaps openly reported – than it is by
the more intuitive, magical,‘just let it happen’
stance adopted by the likes of Sauer.
A thumbnail history
of practising
human geography
Leading from the above, and to frame what
follows in our book, we now want to chart
something of the history of changes in the
practising of human geography. It is only
recently that serious attention has been paid
to ‘aspects of disciplinary practice that tend to
be portrayed as mundane or localised, but that
represent the very routines of what we do’
(Lorimer and Spedding, 2002: 227, emphasis
in original). Various authors are now claiming
that we fail to appreciate much about our dis-
cipline without recognizing that ‘geographical
knowledge [is] constituted through a range of
embodied practices – practices of travelling,
dwelling, seeing, collecting, recording and
narrating’ (Driver, 2000a: 267). They further
worry that many of our ‘knowledge-
producing activities’, old and new, remain
largely absent from how we represent our
research, suggesting that ‘our products of
knowledge (our texts and even our emphases

in conversations of recollection) could do
more to make available this tension of the
present tense of the world’ (Dewsbury and
Naylor, 2002: 254): meaning precisely the
fraughtness of our actual practices as we do
them. It is in the spirit of trying to make more
visible such practices, and in so doing to assess
them critically, that we now turn to our
thumbnail history.
The history relayed here is not intended to
be a comprehensive one, particularly since
more historiographic research is required to
clarify the details of how human geography
(and also geography more generally) has been
practised by different practitioners during
different periods and in different places. (And
note that active research is required to find
out about this history, even if it be research
whose ‘field’ is the archive and whose ‘data’
chiefly comprise the yellowing pages of writings,
maps and diagrams produced by past adven-
turers, explorers and academic geographers:
see Boxes 1.2 and 1.3.) Our history should
also be read in conjunction with other works
more specifically concerned with the history
of geographical inquiry (Cloke et al., 1991;
CHANGING PRACTICES OF HUMAN GEOGRAPHY
7
Figure 1.2 Linda McDowell
Source: Courtesy of Linda McDowell

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Livingstone, 1992; Peet, 1998). The history
that we tell will be somewhat arbitrarily sep-
arated into three different, roughly chrono-
logical, phases: we focus chiefly on the first of
these, for which Sauer is an exemplar in his
preference for immersed observation; and
then on the third of these, for which
McDowell is an exemplar in her preference
for what we will term reflexive practice based
as much on listening as on looking.
Reference will also be made to a ‘middle’
phase in which the practising of human
geography did begin to be problematized,
rather than regarded as intuitively given, and
here we will mention the rise of a ‘survey’
impulse which ended up being hitched to a
particular (and we will argue narrowly)
scientific orientation. For each phase, we will
outline the basic details of what the geogra-
phers involved were doing and arguing,
before switching to offer some more evalua-
tive comments about pluses and minuses that
we perceive in their practices.
‘Being there’ and
‘an eye for country’
Probably the most longstanding tradition
within the practising of (human) geography,
albeit one rarely considered all that explicitly,
has been one which makes a virtue out of the

geographer being personally present in a
given place and thereby able to observe it
directly through his or her own eyes. There
are two interlocking dimensions to this tradi-
tion: the travelling to places within which
the geographer can become immersed, sur-
rounded by the sights, smells and other sensa-
tions of the places involved; and then the
actual act of observation, the gazing upon
these places and their many components, the
peoples included.
Taking the first dimension of ‘being there’,
few would dispute that the very origins of
something called ‘geography’ lie in the earliest
travels which people from particular localities
began to make to visit other places and
peoples further away, and in how such people
subsequently returned to convey their ‘geo-
graphical’ discoveries of these distant places
and people to their own kinsfolk. H.F. Tozer
(1897) duly suggests that the origins of
‘ancient geography’ must be found here, and
he stresses the impetus for particular societies –
notably Ancient Greece – to ‘trace the
increase of the knowledge which they pos-
sessed of various countries – of their outline
and surface, their mountains and rivers, their
products and commodities’ (Tozer, 1897: 1–2).
Although it is unlikely that the ancient geo-
graphers such as Strabo would have reported

entirely on the basis of what they ‘saw taking
place before their eyes’ (Tozer, 1897: 2), they
probably aimed to witness as much as possible
and then to base the rest of their work on the
first-hand observations of other travellers.
Indeed, it is probably not too fanciful to pro-
pose that a fairly direct lineage can be traced
from these earliest geographers, many of
whom must have been intrepid adventurers,
through to the vaguely ‘heroic’ figure – almost
a kind of ‘Indiana Jones’ character constantly
journeying to distant lands – which may still
be associated with the role of the geographer
in the popular imagination.
Even in more academic circles such a
notion is not entirely absent, most notably in
the powerful motif of the geographer as
‘explorer-scientist’ which many (especially
Stoddart, 1986; 1987) see as capturing the
essence of academic geography’s origins and
continuing purpose. Leading from the ‘Age
of Reconnaissance’ (c. 1400–1800) when
voyages of discovery were attended by a grad-
ual recovery of the lost navigational skills of
the ancients, an academic ‘geographical
science’ or ‘scientific geography’ began to
take shape (Kimble, 1938; Bowen, 1981;
Practising human geography
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