When I was a student at University (longer ago than I’d like to think...) I decided to become a member of the Folio Society. My first order included a handsome set of fairytale collections, a few history and fiction titles, and the Society’s edition of Patrick Leigh Fermor’s [b:A Time of Gifts|4899673|A Time of Gifts|Patrick Leigh Fermor|https://d.gr-assets.com/books/1223017864s/4899673.jpg|2636997]. I was no fan of travel writing. Nor had I ever heard of Leigh Fermor. But this was one of the more affordable books in the catalogue, one that didn’t unduly stretch my restricted budget.

The volume remained unopened on my shelves until, one fine day, driven by boredom and a vague curiosity, I immersed myself in its pages. It blew me away.

In 1933, aged “18 and three-quarters” Leigh Fermor set off on a daunting but enthralling voyage - a journey on foot across mainland Europe, from the Hook of Holland to Constantinople. This exploit had a whiff of the Grand Old Tour about it, tinged with a gung-ho “Boys’ Own” sense of adventure. However, Leigh Fermor’s three-volume account of these travels (starting with “A Time of Gifts”) is anything but “boyish”. It is rich in evocative descriptions of sights, smells and sounds, which manage so admirably to capture a sense of place that one is quick to forgive the author’s occasional penchant for over-ripe metaphors. The text is sprinkled with erudite asides, giving insights into the history and culture of the countries which welcomed the young hiker.

There is another element which makes the book so poignant. Leigh Fermor wrote it decades after the events described. In the meantime, the Second World War – and middle age – had intervened, digging furrows in maps and complexion. Not surprisingly, the text is saturated with a feeling of nostalgia and loss. It often reads like an elegy to freedom and youth, and to a different way of life which had disappeared forever. The wide-eyed wonder of the teenage protagonist gives way to the more knowing narrative voice of the author’s older and wiser self.

“A Time of Gifts” describes the first leg of Leigh Fermor’s journey and leaves us with the traveller on a bridge crossing the Danube between Slovakia and Hungary. It is not just a great book – it is a special and memorable one, certainly a landmark in its genre.

Years passed before I rejoined Leigh Fermor on his journey which, in “Between the Woods and the Water” winds its way through Hungary, Transylvania and into Romania. But I must admit that after the initial elation at meeting an old friend again, I started to feel disappointed. The same youthful excitement leaps from the pages, the chapters are still illuminated by the erudition of its author. However, there were some things which bothered me. The narrative momentum is often held up by digressions into the political history of the area which, as the writer himself repeatedly admits, is complex and convoluted. Moreover, despite Leigh Fermor’s open-minded enthusiasm,he sometimes gives the impression that he has not shaken off a degree of class prejudice. Long stretches of the trek are spent in castles of aristocratic friends, fondly recalled during the rougher parts of the journey. And whilst peasants and shepherds are sympathetically described (especially if they are rustic beauties not averse to close encounters in haystacks), Gypsies almost invariably come across as dirty, scheming and dangerous.

Despite my reservations, as the last pages of the book approached, I found it increasingly difficult to put it away. Evidently, the magic of Leigh Fermor’s incredible journey has not yet worn off and I hope to rekindle it soon by reading [b:The Broken Road: From the Iron Gates to Mount Athos|16240481|The Broken Road From the Iron Gates to Mount Athos|Patrick Leigh Fermor|https://d.gr-assets.com/books/1364857799s/16240481.jpg|22245955], the trilogy’s posthumously published conclusion.

Ave atque vale, Paddy! ( )

The. Second book in Fermor's walk from London to Istanbul. Fermor is one part carefree adventurer, one part poet and one part historian. He paints rich portraits of places and people and gently moves you along with him. Keep a dictionary handy since he uses the full expanse of the English language. Some of his descriptions are poetry disguised as prose. He writes about a time between the wars that is long gone. ( )

travel memoir, written decades after the event (1934), recounting a solitary walk across central/eastern Europe - redolent with pre-war period detail. Lyrical in places and remarkable for the detail recalled, only some rather tedious disquisitions on history or abstruse ethnographic subject matter spoil the effect. ( )

When I was a student at University (longer ago than I’d like to think...) I decided to become a member of the Folio Society. My first order included a handsome set of fairytale collections, a few history and fiction titles, and the Society’s edition of Patrick Leigh Fermor’s [b:A Time of Gifts|4899673|A Time of Gifts|Patrick Leigh Fermor|https://d.gr-assets.com/books/1223017864s/4899673.jpg|2636997]. I was no fan of travel writing. Nor had I ever heard of Leigh Fermor. But this was one of the more affordable books in the catalogue, one that didn’t unduly stretch my restricted budget.

The volume remained unopened on my shelves until, one fine day, driven by boredom and a vague curiosity, I immersed myself in its pages. It blew me away.

In 1933, aged “18 and three-quarters” Leigh Fermor set off on a daunting but enthralling voyage - a journey on foot across mainland Europe, from the Hook of Holland to Constantinople. This exploit had a whiff of the Grand Old Tour about it, tinged with a gung-ho “Boys’ Own” sense of adventure. However, Leigh Fermor’s three-volume account of these travels (starting with “A Time of Gifts”) is anything but “boyish”. It is rich in evocative descriptions of sights, smells and sounds, which manage so admirably to capture a sense of place that one is quick to forgive the author’s occasional penchant for over-ripe metaphors. The text is sprinkled with erudite asides, giving insights into the history and culture of the countries which welcomed the young hiker.

There is another element which makes the book so poignant. Leigh Fermor wrote it decades after the events described. In the meantime, the Second World War – and middle age – had intervened, digging furrows in maps and complexion. Not surprisingly, the text is saturated with a feeling of nostalgia and loss. It often reads like an elegy to freedom and youth, and to a different way of life which had disappeared forever. The wide-eyed wonder of the teenage protagonist gives way to the more knowing narrative voice of the author’s older and wiser self.

“A Time of Gifts” describes the first leg of Leigh Fermor’s journey and leaves us with the traveller on a bridge crossing the Danube between Slovakia and Hungary. It is not just a great book – it is a special and memorable one, certainly a landmark in its genre.

Years passed before I rejoined Leigh Fermor on his journey which, in “Between the Woods and the Water” winds its way through Hungary, Transylvania and into Romania. But I must admit that after the initial elation at meeting an old friend again, I started to feel disappointed. The same youthful excitement leaps from the pages, the chapters are still illuminated by the erudition of its author. However, there were some things which bothered me. The narrative momentum is often held up by digressions into the political history of the area which, as the writer himself repeatedly admits, is complex and convoluted. Moreover, despite Leigh Fermor’s open-minded enthusiasm,he sometimes gives the impression that he has not shaken off a degree of class prejudice. Long stretches of the trek are spent in castles of aristocratic friends, fondly recalled during the rougher parts of the journey. And whilst peasants and shepherds are sympathetically described (especially if they are rustic beauties not averse to close encounters in haystacks), Gypsies almost invariably come across as dirty, scheming and dangerous.

Despite my reservations, as the last pages of the book approached, I found it increasingly difficult to put it away. Evidently, the magic of Leigh Fermor’s incredible journey has not yet worn off and I hope to rekindle it soon by reading [b:The Broken Road: From the Iron Gates to Mount Athos|16240481|The Broken Road From the Iron Gates to Mount Athos|Patrick Leigh Fermor|https://d.gr-assets.com/books/1364857799s/16240481.jpg|22245955], the trilogy’s posthumously published conclusion.

Ave atque vale, Paddy! ( )

Although there are many beautifully evoked landscapes, as in [A Time of Gifts], as well a the highly memorable Island of the Turks,
the emphasis on the homes, architecture, books, and intricacies in the lives of the semi-rich doesn't measure up to peasants and sleeping in haystacks.

Redundant political history bordered on boring...

...and refusal to acknowledge the horror of Hitler felt contrived or incomprehensible...
...also hard to tell how he actually felt about "gypsies" and Jewish people. ( )