I’m often asked what my favorite travel book is or to recommend books on places I have traveled, and I guess it must be clear from my blog, that my travels are often influenced in some way by literature. So, in no particular order, I have started to list a few that come to mind.
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Little is known of Strabo; he was born to a wealthy family in the then capital of Pontus around 64BC and after an expensive education in Rome wrote a bloody big book.
His Geographica was the culmination of a lifetime of travels; a legacy probably inspired by Homer is a collection of seventeen volumes telling the history, geo-political turmoil, and culture of the ancient world.
Evelyn Waugh: Remote People
Evelyn Waugh is probably better known for his novels such as Brideshead Revisited than his travelogues; he was a prolific writer and traveled extensively and without doubt a brilliant writer with a sardonic sense of humor. His time at Oxford was spent as it should be, with a pipe and a pint.
I loved Remote People, an account of his travels in Africa in the 1930’s, beginning with the coronation of Emperor Haile Selassie.
At last, we reached our destination. A boy came out to greet us with a lantern, followed by an elderly lady-my host’s mother-in-law
“I thought you were dead,” she said. “and who is this?”
“He’s come to stay. I’ve forgotten his name”
“You’ll be very comfortable; there’s nothing in the home to eat and there are three swarms of bees in the dining room”
Then, turning to her son-in-law: “Belinda’s hindquarters are totally paralyzed.”This referred, not, as I assumed, to her daughter, but, I learned later, to a wolfhound bitch.
Patrick Leigh Fermor: A Time of Gifts
Recognized as one of the greatest ever travel writers, a war hero, and a bit of a lad with the ladies.
In December 1933 he set off from London to walk to Constantinople, along the Rhine and Danube just as Hitler was rising to power, a proper adventure resulting in proper travel writing, possibly the best ever. A Time of Gifts is the first part of this inspirational journey.
For Russia began only a few fields away, the other side of a river; and there, as all her neighbors knew, a great wrong was being done and terrible danger lay. All their fears came true. Living among them made me share those fears and they made stony ground for certain kinds of grain. This is a long rigmarole, but it does show how ill-prepared I was for any form of political argument. In this respect, I might have been sleepwalking.
Charles M Doughty: Travels in Arabia Deserta
Poet, writer, explorer, adventurer, and traveler, maybe even the father of Orientalism, and almost certainly an asshole. He did though write a masterpiece of literature in his Travels in Arabia Deserta, an inspiration to many including TE Lawrence.
A new voice hailed me of an old friend when first returned from the Peninsular, I paced again in that long street of Damascus which is called Straight, and suddenly taking me wondering by the hand, “Tell me (said he) since thou art here again in the peace and assurance of Ullah, and whilst we walk, as in the former years, toward the new blossoming orchards, full of the sweet spring as the garden of God, what moved thee, or how couldst thou take such journeys into the fanatic Arabia?”
Kapka Kassabova: Border-A Journey to the Edge of Europe
Border is a brilliantly beautiful book. Kapka explores an almost forgotten corner of Europe, where once escaping the restraints of communism meant risking life and limb to cross the border into Turkey, now the tables have turned but the forests of the Standja are still haunted by vigilant nationalists.
Beyond my lane, there were only old drove roads and wooded hills all the way to Turkey. At night, jackals came to the edge of the village and howled, and the village dogs howled back in an infernal orchestra.
Unable to sleep, I sat on my balcony and followed the yellow eyes at the edge of the forest. Hornets the size of sparrows invaded the house and I squashed them with Russian hardbacks from the shelves because a hornet sting can kill you, people said. War and Peace proved ideal.
Gustave Flaubert: Flaubert in Egypt-A Sensibility on Tour
Flaubert, as a young, workshy, and feeble nineteenth-century emo, traveled to Egypt in search, perhaps, of inspiration. He wrote to his mother about eight times before he had even departed France, crying along the way, it’s a wonder he even got on the ferry. He traveled with a photographer, (as every great writer should) Maxime Du Camp.
This book is cobbled together from his letters and travel notes translated by Francis Steegmuller, prompted, curiously, by Graham Greene. The young Gustave philandered his way down the Nile, telling tales of his bawdy and graphic (s) exploits that must surely have been very different from that of Florence Nightingale, who, by chance was on the Nile at the same time. His letters to his mother of his catching colds and studying Homer were hardly the whole story. On his return from Egypt and his earthy endeavors, he wrote Madame Bovary, so, don’t judge.
Max’s days are entirely absorbed and consumed by photography. He is doing well but grows desperate whenever he spoils a picture or finds that a plate has been badly washed. Really, if he doesn’t take things easier he will crack up. But he has been getting some superb results, and in consequence, his spirits have been better the last few days. The day before yesterday a kicking mule almost smashed the entire equipment.
Jerome K. Jerome: Three Men in a Boat and Three Men on the Bummel
Three Men in a Boat may very well be my favorite travel book of all time, not least because the setting of the River Thames is most familiar to me; I lived beside it and always returned to it. I will re-visit the book in a later blog post; actually, I will also re-visit Three Men on the Bummel, so stay tuned.
If you like pubs, rivers, and cycling, and who doesn’t? Both books will tickle your fancy. The second book is less well known but every bit as good, very funny and everything you don’t need to know about a visit to Germany.
At first, I fell to wondering whether a stretcher or a clothes-basket would be more useful for the conveyance of Harris’s remains back to the hotel. I consider that George’s promptness on that occasion saved Harris’s life. Being dry, and therefore able to run quicker, he was there before the crowd. Harris was explaining things, but George cut him short.
“You get on that,” Said George, handing him his bicycle, “and go. They don’t know we belong to you, and you may trust us implicitly not to reveal your secret. We’ll hang about behind, and get in their way. Ride zigzag in case they shoot.
Paul Theroux: A Selection of Travel Books for Travelling on Trains
Paul Theroux is a bit of a legend when it comes to travel writing, with a particular fondness for trains. Trains are good for travel and good for reading, slow travel is underrated in an age of budget airlines and apps instead of maps. He has had a long collaborative relationship with well-known Magnum photographer Steve McCurry. Photographers and writers make obvious bedfellows, both feel they can do the other’s work, and, no doubt they can but you can really only do one well at a time. McCurry, though, I have little time for now, sadly.
The trains [in a country] contain the essential paraphernalia of the culture: Thai trains have the shower jar with the glazed dragon on its side, Ceylonese ones the car reserved for Buddhist monks, Indian ones a vegetarian kitchen and six classes, Iranian ones prayer mats, Malaysian ones a noodle stall, Vietnamese ones bulletproof glass on the locomotive, and on every carriage of a Russian train there is a samovar. The railway bazaar with its gadgets and passengers represented the society so completely that to board it was to be challenged by the national character. At times it was like a leisurely seminar, but I also felt on some occasions that it was like being jailed and then assaulted by the monstrously typical.
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The Old Patagonian Express: By Train Through the Americas
Dark Star Safari: Overland from Cairo to Capetown Riding the Iron Rooster: By Train Through China
We all have a favorite bookshop-right? With each city I have lived it’s often the first thing I search for, but we always remember our first. Mine was, and probably still is Blackwells in Oxford, my first job after I left school was just around the corner and I often spent my lunch break there.
After browsing three miles of bookshelves in the Norrington Room I heartily recommend crossing the street to the Kings Arms for a pie and a pint. Oxford, books, and pubs, what’s not to love.
All photographs except book covers by John Wreford, please ask before stealing. Thank you 🙂
John Wreford Photographer 