The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry - Rachel Joyce

'The letter that would change everything arrived on a Tuesday. It was an ordinary morning in mid-April that smelled of clean washing and grass cuttings. Harold Fry sat at the breakfast table, freshly shaved, in a clean shirt and tie, with a slice of toast that he wasn't eating. He gazed beyond the kitchen window at the clipped lawn, which was spiked in the middle by Maureen's telescopic washing line, and trapped on all three sides by the neighbours' close-board fencing.'

 

Harold Fry is an unremarkable man, aged sixty-five and six months into his retirement. One day he receives a letter from an old friend. She tells him she's dying of cancer in a hospice in Berwick-upon-Tweed.  He writes a short inadequate reply and walks to the post box. He walks past the first post box, and past the next, and then, before he knows it, he's resolved to walk the four hundred plus miles to see his friend Queenie in person.

At times both moving and humorous, the novel tells the story of his journey. As Harold walks, he reflects on his friendship with Queenie and his troubled relationships with his wife Maureen and his son David. He starts to believe that by walking to Berwick he can atone for his past mistakes and somehow save Queenie's life.

On the way he suffers terrible physical hardships. He's unfit and not equipped for such a journey, walking in boat shoes and without any equipment or even - heaven forbid - a mobile phone. His wife is not at all impressed, but Harold feels alive in a way he has not felt for years. He encounters a host of unusual characters, from the girl in the garage with her 'happy to help' badge, to the tramp who dances with him in the street. Like Bunyan's pilgrim, Harold learns many lessons on his journey. His brief encounter with a man who tells Harold of his unconventional relationship with a much younger man causes him to reflect:

'The silver-haired gentleman was in truth nothing like the man Harold had first imagined him to be. He was a chap like himself, with a unique pain; and yet there would be no knowing that if you passed him in the street, or sat opposite him in a cafe and did not share his teacake. Harold pictured the gentleman on a station platform, smart in his suit, looking no different from anyone else. It must be the same all over England. People were buying milk, or filling their cars with petrol, or even posting letters. And what no one else knew was the appalling weight of the thing they were carrying inside. The superhuman effort it took sometimes to be normal, and a part of things that appeared both easy and everyday. The loneliness of that. Moved and humbled, he passed his paper napkin.'

Joyce tells the story well, moving between Harold's present hardships and past reflections with ease. Without being particularly deep or challenging, it's a very enjoyable read.

Where to begin?

As I write this I'm sitting in my favourite spot in Caffe Nero with my usual order of diet coke and tuna melt panini. You might be forgiven for thinking I'm taking it easy, with time on my hands. It's an easy mistake to make, I know. Instead, I'm having ONE OF THOSE DAYS. You know the type - those days where no sooner do you start one thing than you remember all the other things you should be doing. I have to remind myself that it's okay to sit here, since writing a blog post is on my list. I've been rather lax of late on the blogging front, but I rather like sitting in a cafe with my notebook, pretending to be one of those writerly types.

So let me tell you about all the things I could and should be doing. At the moment I'm dipping my toe in Shakespeare rather than the full immersion I'd hoped for at the start of the course. My study calendar tells me I should be reading Hamlet - or was that last week? My head's still buzzing from a dynamic youth production at the local Dukes theatre a couple of weeks ago. I have an assignment on Twelfth Night due in a couple of weeks, but I'd rather be reading Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead. What's more, there's a Tobacco Factory production of The Two Gentlemen of Verona at the Dukes this week. Twelfth Night is clearly going to have to wait.

On the novel front, this month's book group choice is Sylvia Plath's The Bell Jar. I've read it a couple of times before, the first being the more disconcerting since I could relate to Esther Greenwood's disturbed state of mind rather more than is healthy. I'm hosting book group this time so it's unlikely I'll be able to wriggle out of reading it again, even allowing for extra coffee making and other hostess duties. Hmmph! Reading's not supposed to be a chore.

I made the mistake of opening one of my birthday gifts, Elizabeth Taylor's Complete Short Stories. I only read the first few pages of 'Hester Lilly' and now I don't want to stop. Taylor's such a subtle and skillful writer that there's so much lies beneath the words on the page. It's a rather long short story so clearly The Bell Jar is going to have to wait too.

All these literary distractions wouldn't be so bad, but with the pace stepping up at work and the cricket season beginning, real life is really getting in the way.

But hey, better to have too much to do than too little.

And at least I can now cross one thing off my list.

It's that time of year again

I have The Mathematician to thank for many things. He's taught me to appreciate curry and a good wine, but most importantly he's introduced me to the game of cricket.

So it's cricket that brings me to Tyldesley on a sunny bank holiday afternoon to watch my son in his first trial for the under 11 Lancashire county team. With a good viewpoint on the boundary, a picnic and a book of Elizabeth Taylor's short stories, life couldn't be better.