A Time of Gifts

In 1994, for reasons I still cannot explain easily, I made my first independent trip to Austria. I flew into Munich and then continued onwards by train, first to Salzburg and then to Vienna. It was a revelation. The railway from Salzburg to Vienna roughly parallels the Danube, though at some considerable distance most of the time; the towns and villages were strange to me, yet in some ways oddly familiar. Castles and monasteries dotted the landscape, often occupying lofty heights. I was amazed; nothing I had ever seen in print or on film had prepared me for this. "Zu mir ist alles in Österreich neu" I said to a fellow traveller. "To me, everything in Austria is new."

Then, about two hours into the journey, we rounded a bend in the track show more and a stupendous building hove into view, standing on a rocky outcrop just on the other side of a small town. It had domes, and spires, and flying buttresses, and it was gigantic and ornate and I think my jaw dropped open. I was utterly transfixed; why had I never heard of this place before?

This was my first view of the monastery of Melk. (Sadly, present-day train travellers do not have this pleasure; the upgrading of the railway between Salzburg and Vienna has meant that the high-speed trains now plunge into a tunnel avoiding Melk.) Some sixty years earlier, the 19-year-old Patrick Leigh Fermor had a similar reaction on first encountering Melk from the banks of the Danube; and like me, he was experiencing the reality of travelling through Europe first hand for the first time. But he was doing it the really difficult way - on foot.

In 1933, Paddy Leigh Fermor dropped out of a fairly good public school and decided to walk across Europe to Constantinople (Istanbul). He determined to go on the tramp as an itinerant scholar, sleeping where he could and talking to whoever crossed his path. Within ten years, he achieved some notoriety in the fighting on Crete in the Second World War, operating behind the lines, organising the Cretan resistance, and kidnapping the German general in command of the island and spiriting him away to Cairo on a motor-boat. On the strength of the story that he starts in 'A Time of Gifts', this was a role he had been preparing for all his life. Certainly his ability to fit in and move, reasonably unhindered, across Europe at a time of political turbulence, well fitted him for masquerading as a Cretan shepherd. Like other British officers, in later life he turned to literary endeavours and had a successful career as a writer. 'A Time of Gifts' was started in the 1970s when Leigh Fermor was in his sixties; it is a reconstruction from his memories and incomplete notes. He continued the story in 'Between the Woods and the Water'; he never completed the third, concluding volume, though it has now been assembled and published as 'The Broken Road'.

He captures well the wide-eyed innocence of his youth; few of his reminiscences are marred by our, and his, knowledge of what was to come, although that is very much a subtext, especially when he explores the streets of Cologne or encounters hospitable and erudite Jews everywhere along his journey. He even maintains that sense in recounting encounters in Germany with the then-new Nazi regime, its supporters and the ordinary people who had little time for Hitler. He also has a (nearly) eye-witness account of what the Austrians call "the Civil War", the internecine conflict between militias of the Left and Right. If all your knowledge of inter-war Austria comes from "The Sound of Music", this will come as a shock.

But there are many pleasures to be had from this book, too. Leigh Fermor's complete guilelessness enables him to fall in with ordinary workers and peasants as well as members of the aristocracy which he seems to gravitate towards, only partly due to contacts from his family and friends back in the UK. He hitches rides on lorries or on a barge on the Rhine; the description of Rhineland river traffic is timeless, even though so much has changed since.

Leigh Fermor took one other thing with him on his tramp; a classical education, though his own opinion of his school career is brutally negative. Nonetheless, as a minor member of the English gentry, he had that classical education even if he did absorb it by osmosis rather than by scholastic endeavour. His reactions to the art, literature, architecture and accounts of historical personages he encounters on his way shows this, and sometimes the book does divert into detailed and quite florid descriptions of artistic movements, of minor Habsburg nobles, of events and people long since consigned to history. This can make the eyes glaze over a little, but the older Leigh Fermor manages to inject his youthful exuberance and zest for life into the account, even at something like forty years' remove.

This book will not be to everyone's taste; the historic and artistic diversions can be a distraction, though when he takes a side excursion to Prague it is fascinating to read his account in the knowledge that he did not anticipate ever being able to see it again. The political changes of the late 20th century have changed all that, and for some in our modern age of mass travel, Prague and Bratislava are perhaps too ordinary to notice when compared with more exotic long-haul destinations. I also found, from time to time, that he dropped a name into the conversation which I recognised and took delight in; for instance, he references Jaroslav Hasek's great comic novel 'The Good Soldier Švejk" in its proper setting.

In his journeys through the former Austro-Hungarian Empire (Austria, the former Czechoslovakia and Hungary), he continually comes across reminders of the only then recently departed Empire as he encounters portraits of Franz Josef in offices and living rooms, or other relics of the k.u.k (Kaiserlich und Königlich, or Imperial and Royal) past. "Alles k.u.k-lich" some Austrians say, even now, "Everything Imperial style"; I have had conversations with old boys in Viennese cafes who are surprised that an Englishman can have an interest in the "old Empire"; it appears I am certainly not the first.

In this book, I have found echoes of things I have seen, experiences I have had and the sort of conversations I have had in trains and in cafes between the Channel and Vienna. It is a book that speaks to me directly. I think I have a new favourite book. show less

Patrick Leigh Fermor was quite the character. Living to the ripe old age of 96 despite a penchant for up to 100 cigarettes a day, he was a wonderful mix of scholar and travel writer, as well as being a decorated solider in WWII. At the age of eighteen, after many years of being troublesome and difficult to tame at school in London, Fermor decided that the army wasn't (yet) for him, and on a relative whim set out in the depths of winter 1933 to walk from the Hook of Holland to Constantinople. This book chronicles his journey through a pre-WWII Europe as far as Hungary.

Reading this book truly transports you to a bygone era, where a traveller's welcome and hospitality awaits in every town and village, rural peasants still wear the show more traditional dress of their culture, and beautiful medieval German towns have yet to be destroyed by the war which is only a few years away. As Fermor wrote this book some 40 years after his journey, what ensues is a mix of travelogue embellished with detail from subsequent cultural and historical learnings, peppered with interesting insights which the passing of time and hindsight enabled him to draw different conclusions on than may have been apparent during his travels (for instance, the spread of Nazism in many German towns).

Despite a shaky start to his education, Fermor clearly was a natural scholar and intellectual, and at times his knowledge on the complexities of the changes of European power through the centuries in relation to various castles and cathedrals was dizzyingly dense and detailed. In an ideal world, this is a book that should be read slowly in complement with a study of European history, as in places it was challenging to keep up with the pace of Fermor's expansive knowledge.

The first half of his journey was my favourite, as Fermor travelled through the Netherlands and followed the Danube through Germany. We feel more of his journey experience at the time rather than the historical detail that makes up some later parts of the book, but I suspect that's a point of personal interest as I enjoy social history, whilst others may enjoy more of the political and historical architecture sections. Although I suspect he liked to downplay his background, Fermor was clearly from a privileged family, and despite travelling on a shoestring budget his stays in hay lofts and hostels were interspersed with stays in magnificent homes and castles of European gentry.

This is a beautiful book written in a dense, literary style which requires close reading (and sometimes rereading) of passages to fully absorb it. It truly is an insight to an era that we will never see again; a romantic perspective no doubt, but one that leaves you longing to experience that magical Europe of old when a traveller was something of a rarity (how difficult to imagine that nowadays where the places Fermor visits would today be crushed by heaving swarms of tourists).

4 stars - a wonderful book which transports you to everyday life across Europe at a time when the horrors of war are just around the corner. show less

In 1933, Patrick Leigh Fermor, eighteen years old, left home and set out for an epic walk from the “Hoek of Holland”, all the way to Constantinople. His long journey is related in two beautiful classics: “A time of gifts” and “Between the woods and the water”.

From the first lines, one is taken aback by the beautiful writing and the maturity with which Leigh Fermor looked at the world. Surely, this could not be the work of such a young man! But we should not be surprised; Leigh Fermor wrote down his memories much later, in 1977 at a respective age of 62. By then the writer had already sharpened his pen on the translation and editing of the “Cretan Runner” written by the Greek author Psychoundakis’ and developed his own show more style in “Mani” and “Roumeli”, two acclaimed and beautiful books on Greece.

Like a true Pilgrim and in tune with his young age and Byronic spirit, Leigh Fermor travelled light and on a low budget. Only equipped with a walking stick, a rucksack and two books; (an old Oxford volume of English verse and Loeb’s Horace), Leigh Fermor simply embarked on a rainy day on a steamer which brought him from the Thames to the Low Countries. From there it was on foot and an occasional ride on a hay-wagon.

The rucksack was bequeathed to him by Mark Ogilvie – Grant, Robert Byron’s travelling companion on his trip to Mount Athos, and this detail underscores the fact that Leigh Fermor does belong to this race of young, intelligent and cultural-enlightened travelers, like Pausanius and Byron before him and Herzog, Chatwin and Jacques Lacarrière after him, who all reported of their travels in brilliant books, written to our great enjoyment.

Because the young man travels like a Pilgrim, innocent and alone and thus vulnerable, he brings out the best from the many people he encounters in his wanderings through the cities and country-side. Nearly everywhere doors open, tables are dressed, friendships sealed and confidences exchanged. Free meals, free beds, help and advice are offered at each bend of the road.

But the specific year of the pilgrimage, 1933, gives Leigh Fermor’s account a strange and darker dimension. For the Germany he travels through is Nazi – Germany and the young and friendly people he meets will become his enemies in less than a decade. Some of the boys of his age already adorn their rooms with posters and newspaper clippings of the Fuhrer, but still a lot make jokes about Hitler and a handful are even convinced that the success of the Fuhrer will not outlast the next elections… Alas.

The world through which Leigh Fermor travels will soon be obliterated in a apocalyptic inferno. When reading about the many small villages and tiny hamlets he travels through in Czechia, Slovakia, Hungary, Roumenia and Bulgaria, the present reader knows that their inhabitants are doomed. Jewish communities, Gypsie villages, Slav settlements, all these gentle folks who help him en route will not outlive the fury of the German “Herren – Volk.

So in the end this marvelous travel account, with its funny anecdotes and many beautiful descriptions, its exposure of cultural riches and descriptions of human hospitality, is also a document on innocence about to be lost, both on the level of the young traveler and the world he travels through.

A sad aftertaste indeed… show less

I love this book. The trilogy chronicles the adventures of the author walking from England to Istanbul starting in 1934. This represents his travels up to Hungary. It’s a time capsule of a Europe trying to understand the consequences of the Great War and weary of the rumblings in Germany. There’s not really a narrative, which is kind of the point. It’s more of a suite of adolescent impressions of humanity as filtered through the author looking back at them, someone who has been through the worst humanity has to offer, but only after the events described. The memories are limned with a kind of gauzy joy, an innocence he’s trying to recover, and the writing feels like a byproduct of that process. Which is to say the writing is show more some of the best travel writing in English, if not the best. I read this book at night, right before falling to sleep. Every night it sent me into a beautiful reverie of snowy paths, hearth-warmed inns, and an invigorated faith in strangers. show less

This is a time capsule. A warm, beautifully written time capsule that evokes a Europe on the cusp of modernity. The breadth of the people he meets, their ways of life, the little villages and the grand cities, the art, the churches, the ruined castles, the scenery … what a time to have been there, to see it all. There are whole sections that feel like a fairy tale. The book’s written years later, though, based off his journals at the time, which adds a layer of “what I’ve seen since” and a layer of “what a young fool I was”. (The whole Thing in Munich, for instance.) A wonderful piece of history and a lovely story of a journey, a time, and a place. Didn’t love enough to rush out for the next two, but will certainly be show more reading them both.

8/10 show less

This first part of Patrick Leigh Fermor's journey to Constantinople takes him up the Rhine and down the Danube as far as Esztergom, on the border between Hungary and Slovakia. As others have said, a lot of the charm in these books comes from the way Fermor manages to recapture the youth and innocence of those days, while writing more than forty years later. It's difficult to make out how much is memory and how much he has reconstructed from later knowledge — he makes it clear that he lost the diary covering his journey as far as Munich. But, authentic or not, his impressions have a lot in them that makes me remember how I saw the world when I was eighteen and travelling independently for the first time.

Of course, there's an extra show more charm in the knowledge that the Europe he describes was about to change for good. Although he freely admits that he knew little and cared less about politics, he could not avoid noticing that Hitler had just come to power in Germany, and that there was fighting in the streets of Vienna when he arrived there. In a way, his naivety makes his few observations of the political scene more interesting (for instance, the scene where a young man proudly shows off his bedroom full of Nazi posters and emblems, then disarmingly tells him "You should have seen it six months ago, when I was a Communist!"), but this is clearly an aspect of the book that has been heavily filtered through his subsequent knowledge and experience.

Most of the book is written in a charmingly clear and elegant style, but there are occasional passages where he allows himself to get carried away, mostly when writing about the way his ideas on history and painting evolved during the trip, and it all becomes a bit Bridesheadish. Still, it's clearly a classic piece of travel writing, and I don't know why it's taken me so long to discover it... show less

While reading Upton Sinclair's Lanny Budd series, I heard about Patrick Leigh Fermor's travel memoirs on the NYT Book Review podcast and planned to read this book when I reached the same time period in the Sinclair series. The Lanny Budd books center the wealthy and focus on "high" society. This memoir seemed like a good balance to the novels because I hoped to get glimpses of people from the lower and middle classes.

Fermor decided at the young age of 18 to walk across the continent, from Rotterdam to Constantinople. This first volume details his trip from London to his crossing of the Danube at the border of Czechoslovakia with Hungary. The memoir is, in general, written chronologically. An introduction brings the reader up to the show more point of his departure, and the story of the journey continues in another volume.

I enjoyed the book, especially his observations of the people he met along the way. He explores the language, folkways, and society of the various peoples he encounters. He also provides vivid descriptions of the wintry landscapes.

The book was written in the 1970s, using his contemporaneous journals and his memories as source material. The experiences of his later years inform the writing and sometimes intrude into the story. These adventures show that his daring only increased in the following decades and made me want to read the next volume as well as his later work. I look forward to doing so. show less