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A Time of Gifts: On Foot to Constantinople: From the Hook of Holland to the Middle Danube (New York Review Books Classics) Paperback – October 3, 2005
| Patrick Leigh Fermor (Author) Find all the books, read about the author, and more. See search results for this author |
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At the age of eighteen, Patrick Leigh Fermor set off from the heart of London on an epic journey—to walk to Constantinople. A Time of Gifts is the rich account of his adventures as far as Hungary, after which Between the Woods and the Water continues the story to the Iron Gates that divide the Carpathian and Balkan mountains. Acclaimed for its sweep and intelligence, Leigh Fermor’s book explores a remarkable moment in time. Hitler has just come to power but war is still ahead, as he walks through a Europe soon to be forever changed—through the Lowlands to Mitteleuropa, to Teutonic and Slav heartlands, through the baroque remains of the Holy Roman Empire; up the Rhine, and down to the Danube.
At once a memoir of coming-of-age, an account of a journey, and a dazzling exposition of the English language, A Time of Gifts is also a portrait of a continent already showing ominous signs of the holocaust to come.
- Print length344 pages
- LanguageEnglish
- PublisherNYRB Classics
- Publication dateOctober 3, 2005
- Dimensions5.01 x 0.7 x 7.98 inches
- ISBN-101590171659
- ISBN-13978-1590171653
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From the Publisher
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| A Time of Gifts | Between the Woods and the Water | The Broken Road | A Time to Keep Silence | Mani: Travels in the Southern Peloponnese | Roumeli: Travels in Northern Greece | |
| About this book | In this work, Patrick Leigh Fermor recounts the first leg of a 1934 cross-continental walk. | Patrick Leigh Fermor recounts the second leg of his 1934 trek to Constantinople. | The third and final volume of Patrick Leigh Fermor's legendary trek across Europe. | Patrick Leigh Fermor chronicles his several sojourns in some of Europe's oldest and most celebrated monasteries. | Patrick Leigh Fermor on his journeys amongst the peoples of the southern-most parts of Greece. | Patrick Leigh Fermor tells of his wanderings in and around Northern Greece. |
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| The Traveller's Tree: A Journey through the Caribbean Islands | The Violins of Saint-Jacques | Patrick Leigh Fermor: A Life in Letters | In Tearing Haste: Letters between Deborah Devonshire and Patrick Leigh Fermor | Abducting a General: The Kreipe Operation in Crete | Patrick Leigh Fermor: An Adventure | |
| About this book | Patrick Leigh Fermor on his travels around the Caribbean. | Patrick Leigh Fermor's only novel, about disaster on a small, fictional island. | Letters spanning almost seventy years of Patrick Leigh Fermor's life. | The punchy correspondence between Patrick Leigh Fermor and Deborah Mitford, the Duchess of Devonshire. | Patrick Leigh Fermor's account of kidnapping General Kreipe, the German commander in Crete, on April 26, 1944. | Artemis Cooper's celebrated biography of the intrepid travel writer Patrick Leigh Fermor. |
Editorial Reviews
Review
“Recovers the innocence and the excitement of youth, when everything was possible and the world seemed luminescent with promise. ...Even more magical...through Hungary, its lost province of Transylvania, and into Romania... sampling the tail end of a languid, urbane and anglophile way of life that would soon be swept away forever.” —Jeremy Lewis, Literary Review
“A book so good you resent finishing it.” —Norman Stone
"The greatest of living travel writers…an amazingly complex and subtle evocation of a place that is no more." — Jan Morris
"In these two volumes of extraordinary lyrical beauty and discursive, staggering erudition, Leigh Fermor recounted his first great excursion… They’re partially about an older author’s encounter with his young self, but they’re mostly an evocation of a lost Mitteleuropa of wild horses and dark forests, of ancient synagogues and vivacious Jewish coffeehouses, of Hussars and Uhlans, and of high-spirited and deeply eccentric patricians with vast libraries (such as the Transylvanian count who was a famous entomologist specializing in Far Eastern moths and who spoke perfect English, though with a heavy Scottish accent, thanks to his Highland nanny). These books amply display Leigh Fermor’s keen eye and preternatural ear for languages, but what sets them apart, besides the utterly engaging persona of their narrator, is his historical imagination and intricate sense of historical linkage…Few writers are as alive to the persistence of the past (he’s ever alert to the historical forces that account for the shifts in custom, language, architecture, and costume that he discerns), and I’ve read none who are so sensitive to the layers of invasion that define the part of Europe he depicts here. The unusual vantage point of these books lends them great poignancy, for we and the author know what the youthful Leigh Fermor cannot: that the war will tear the scenery and shatter the buildings he evokes; that German and Soviet occupation will uproot the beguiling world of those Tolstoyan nobles; and that in fact very few people who became his friends on this marvelous and sunny journey will survive the coming catastrophe." — Benjamin Schwarz, The Atlantic
Praise for Patrick Leigh Fermor:
"One of the greatest travel writers of all time”–The Sunday Times
“A unique mixture of hero, historian, traveler and writer; the last and the greatest of a generation whose like we won't see again.”–Geographical
“The finest traveling companion we could ever have . . . His head is stocked with enough cultural lore and poetic fancy to make every league an adventure.” –Evening Standard
If all Europe were laid waste tomorrow, one might do worse than attempt to recreate it, or at least to preserve some sense of historical splendor and variety, by immersing oneself in the travel books of Patrick Leigh Fermor.”—Ben Downing, The Paris Review
About the Author
Jan Morris was born in 1926, is Anglo-Welsh, and lives in Wales. She has written some forty books, including the Pax Britannica trilogy about the British Empire; studies of Wales, Spain, Venice, Oxford, Manhattan, Sydney, Hong Kong, and Trieste; six volumes of collected travel essays; two memoirs; two capricious biographies; and a couple of novels—but she defines her entire oeuvre as “disguised autobiography.” She is an honorary D.Litt. of the University of Wales and a Commander of the British Empire. Her memoir Conundrum is available as a New York Review Book Classic.
Product details
- Publisher : NYRB Classics; First Edition Thus (October 3, 2005)
- Language : English
- Paperback : 344 pages
- ISBN-10 : 1590171659
- ISBN-13 : 978-1590171653
- Item Weight : 11.7 ounces
- Dimensions : 5.01 x 0.7 x 7.98 inches
- Best Sellers Rank: #55,146 in Books (See Top 100 in Books)
- #185 in Travel Writing Reference
- #306 in Traveler & Explorer Biographies
- #3,526 in Memoirs (Books)
- Customer Reviews:
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Three traits make this book so impressive. The journey across Europe, poised roughly midway between its two great 20th century cataclysms, puts the reader in a time machine with young “Paddy”. Fermor begins his youthful journey in the year that Hitler came to power, and he encounters Brown Shirts in beer halls and an exuberant thug who’s sloughed off his Communist trappings—physical and mental— to dive headlong into the Nazi movement. As Fermor journeys forward towards his destination, he moves backward in time. He sleeps under the open stars, in barns, in taverns, in hostels, in homes, and in castles. Fermor's youth and charm seem to provide an open sesame to ordinary folk, to the middle class, and to the fading aristocracy. He develops a web of connections among the well-to-do that opens doors as he travels into the next town or castle. He moves from pauper to prince and back with elegant ease. He deftly portrays the characters and scenes that he encounters, often providing digressions on history, flora and fauna, and landscape as he makes his way. A brief side journey to Prague elicits a short foray into the Defenestration of Prague.
The second factor that adds luster to this work arises from the fact that he wrote this first installment over 40 years after his journey. Invited to write a magazine article about the virtues of walking, Fermor instead wrote this book (published in 1977). Thus, except from some brief excerpts taken directly from his journal, we have the work of a mature, worldly, and erudite man reconstructing his adventures as a very young man. The exuberance of youth mixes with the perspective of age, although the narrative is uninterrupted and of a single voice. We meet two selves speaking through one voice.
Finally, Fermor's prose exceeds poetry in its beauty and grace. Fermor's work supports my contention that prose can exceed poetry in its beauty, fueled by more extended metaphors, descriptions, and narratives—if penned by the hand of a master such as Fermor. Poetry mimics music in its fleeting melody and open suggestions. Prose, like painting, is more plastic and invites detailed consideration, revealing nuances of meaning as the text retards time of allow a deeper contemplation of the scene created. Others, like William Dalrymple, praise Fermor as one ofthe great English prose-stylists. I concur. Fermor paints verbal portraits and landscapes that rival a Turner or Constable in beauty.
My brief review does not indicate a lack of merit or enthusiasm for this book; quite the opposite, my ability is inadequate to do real justice to this gem. I’ll leave you with a quote from a passage of the book to provide you a better representation of what Fermor accomplishes with his prose. The setting is at the end of the book, as Fermor stands on the bridge over the Danube between Czechoslovakia and Hungary on Holy Saturday evening:
I too heard the change in the bells and the croaking and the solitary owl’s note. But it was getting too dim to descry a figure, let alone a struck match, at the windows of the Archbishopric. A little earlier, sunset had kindled them as if the Palace were on fire. Now the sulphur, the crocus, the bright pink and the crimson had left the panes and drained away from the touzled but still unmoving cirrus they had reflected. But the river, paler still by contrast with the sombre merging of the woods , had lightened to a milky hue . A jade-green radiance had not yet abandoned the sky. The air itself, the branches, the flag-leaves, the willow -herb and the rushes were held for a space, before the unifying shadows should dissolve them, in a vernal and marvellous light like the bloom on a greengage. Low on the flood and almost immaterialized by this luminous moment, a heron sculled upstream, detectable mainly by sound and by the darker and slowly dissolving rings that the tips of its flight-feathers left on the water. A collusion of shadows had begun and soon only the lighter colour of the river would survive. Downstream in the dark, meanwhile, there was no hint of the full moon that would transform the scene later on. No-one else was left on the bridge and the few on the quay were all hastening the same way. Prised loose from the balustrade at last by a more compelling note from the belfries, I hastened to follow. I didn’t want to be late.
TO BE CONTINUED
Fermor, Patrick Leigh (2010-10-10). A Time of Gifts (Kindle Locations 4710-4721). John Murray. Kindle Edition.
And continue I shall with Between the Woods and the Water: On Foot to Constantinople from the Middle Danube to the Iron Gates, the next installment.
Fermor sleeps in barns and hostels and castles, depending on the chance of the day, and describes everything he encounters, from boatmen to barons, barnyards to the most exalted examples of European architecture and art. He has a voracious curiosity about whatever crosses his path, and this book made salutary reading for a person who has for the moment lost a sense of life’s wonder. Hitler has just come to power but Fermor does not overpower the narrative with political concerns or foreshadowing: the narrative remains resolutely in the present as he experienced it, without a lot of “if only I knew then what I know now.” As he moves eastward, he takes an ever greater interest in cultural artifacts, so a tale that begins heavily weighted toward encounters with people gradually takes on a more literary and art-critical flavor.
The writing is nearly always gorgeous, full of rich, finely observed detail and original imagery. I tend to love writerly prose, and many of the passages were for me like taking a long scented bath in words. One example:
“‘In cold weather like this,’ said the innkeeper of a
Gastwirtschaft further down, ‘I recommend Himbeergeist.’
I obeyed and it was a lightning conversion. Spirit of
raspberries, or their ghost—this crystalline distillation,
twinkling and ice-cold in its misty goblet, looked as though
it were homeopathically in league with the weather.
Sipped or swallowed, it went shuddering through its new
home and branched out in patterns—or so it seemed after
a second glass—like the ice-ferns that covered the window
panes, but radiating warmth and happiness instead of cold,
and carrying a ghostly message of comfort to the uttermost
fimbria.”
Okay, another, as he climbs a hill along the Danube:
“Increasing height laid bare new reaches of the river
like an ever-lengthening chain of lakes, and for those
rare stretches where the valley ran east and west, the
sunrise and sunset lay reflected and still and an
illusion lifted each lake a step higher than its predecessor
until they formed gleaming staircases climbing in either
direction; and at last the intervening headlands lost touch
with the other shore and the watery stairs, now far below,
cohered in a single liquid serpent.”
Each scene is described in all its particularity and no place he brings to life feels like any other place on earth. The same goes for the people, each encountered only briefly but all glowing as unique sparks. Among my greatest pleasures in the reading were his passing encounters and the characters so lovingly sketched.
All this language (and his formidable vocabulary) requires an intensity of focus that demands slow reading; I could not manage more than thirty pages at once most of the time. Occasionally, it must be said, Fermor tips over the line into turgidity. Amid the Rhenish vineyards (perhaps after enjoying their harvest too freely) he writes, “Pruned to the bone, the dark vine-shoots stuck out of the snow in rows of skeleton fists which shrank to quincunxes of black commas along the snow-covered contour-lines of the vineyards as they climbed, until the steep waves of salients and re-entrants faltered at last and expired overhead among the wild bare rocks.” But over-the-top moments like that were few for me and massively outweighed by the beauty and insight.
If you like travel narratives and don’t mind a spot of intellectual challenge in your reading, *A Time of Gifts* is a feast of delights.
Top reviews from other countries
The gap between erudite and arcane becomes very narrow, though there are some homely touches, as when the writer describes columns as 'grooved like celery stalks'. His 'douceur de vivre' he says, 'pervades the whole of life' , but the reader feels excluded from the opulence of his genius too often. The sheer tedium of some of the architectural feature-spotting, pages and pages of it at times, may well wear you down, but the putteed ruggedness of this Byzantium-bound Odysseus wins the day. With Hitler beginning to emerge from the feculent bog of fascism, the placid rationality of this charming young genius holds you fast to his footsteps wherever he goes.
This is not an easy read, especially in the absence of maps, but there's a sincere, authentic and rawly naïve voice here, striding ever onward. The descriptions of his walks over the surreal, Breughel-like winter landscapes are compelling. Hang in there, however laborious it seems, for there's always a deep slumber in the hay barn waiting for you at the close of day.
His eulogizing over different architectural features may well have a great degree of scholarly knowledge of the subject but I can only imagine such fulsome descriptiveness, page after page of it, will be lost on all but the most erudite of architectural professionals, or constructors of the more arcane features of medieval fortifications. I found myself skimming through too much of his undecipherable prose, feeling shortchanged.
It seems to be and have the strong flavour of embellished reminiscence (aided by some diary extracts) of an older, wiser sage, than the teenager who marched out in his hob nailed boots into a Europe about to disintegrate into fascism and war.
On the bonus side the few references to Brown shirts, the SA, Sturmabteilung and other vermin in the streets and beer halls are sometimes quite revealing as to the prewar atmosphere pervading in Germany/Austria.. None the less the more academic/aristocratic acquaintances that seemed to be his main contacts appeared to be above such mundane matters, living in a detached Belle Epoch seemingly untouched by the hyperinflation or chaos of the Weimar Republic.
The narrative ends abruptly before reaching the Balkans and Turkey, again leaving me feeling a bit shortchanged. I wouldn't have wanted to have not read this book (parts). There are some really nice passages and the author comes over as at least likable, but neither would i give it an unconditional recommendation. And so sadly only three stars from me!
Amazingly Patrick was able to recount, some fifty years later, with the help of some notebooks his entire walking trip as far as the bridge into Hungary I loved the fact that he bought most of his meagre equipment from a Government surplus store in 1933. Interesting to note to that in those days one could take a ferry from Tower Bridge to Hook of Holland.Few writers have regaled us with so much glorious descriptive detail
of a daily trek. Sleeping rough, in haystacks or whatever and getting lucky with more superior accommodation in grand houses and castles, and being given introductions to householders in the next village or town along the Danube. The writer had a classical mind and sometimes lost me but it was his interests in almost everything that I admired most. A wonderful read and I look forward to the sequel Between the Woods and the Water, from Hungary onwards. What an extraordinary travelogue indeed!
All these themes criss-cross each other in this highly entertaining travelogue of a young man’s journey from England to Istanbul following the rhine in the 1930’s.
The author made the trip on an impulse and was encouraged to write about his experiences many, many years later so there will undoubtedly be embellishment in gaps of recollection and some unavoidable hindsight in the retelling of what was a tumultuous period of European history.
This shouldn’t take away from the fact the book is such an enjoyable read, rich in insight, humour and detail making the reader envious for a time
when an impulsive desire to travel could happen due to the the lack of technology, organisation, rules and regulations and hoardes of tourism that we have to endure now before going anywhere. Making discoveries as they are presented to you rather than having everything at your fingertips at the touch of a screen and a swipe.
This book is the first of three although the final instalment was written from the authors notes after his death. I haven’t read a travelogue before but a friend leant me a copy which I began reading and enjoyed so much I bought the book myself so I could read it at a more leisurely pace which I think in this case makes for a more rewarding experience.
The book starts with an introduction by a well respected travel writer, Jan Morris, who sets up Patrick Leigh Fermor and the context of his travels. We then get a map showing the route that is to be undertaken showing some interesting cities on the way.
He meets some fascinating people on his journey and that is the key of this book. Without the characters and personal connection the rest of the description would be superior and too academic for most general readers, particularly the continual architectural observations.
Too often the text becomes tedious but overall it is good enough to keep my interest.









