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A Poet's Pilgrimage
Unlike some other reproductions of classic texts (1) We have not used OCR(Optical Character Recognition), as this leads to bad quality books with introduced typos. (2) In books where there are images such as portraits, maps, sketches etc We have endeavoured to keep the quality of these images, so they represent accurately the original artefact. Although occasionally there may be certain imperfections with these old texts, we feel they deserve to be made available for future generations to enjoy.
394 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 2006
About the author
W.H. Davies
206 books38 followersWilliam Henry Davies was born in Newport, Monmouthshire, Wales. His father was, at the time a Publican. After an apprenticeship as a picture-frame maker and a series of labouring jobs, he travelled to America, first to New York and then to the Klondike.
He returned to England after an accident whilst jumping a train in Canada, he lost a foot. Upon his return to Britain he led a poor, hard life living in London lodging houses and as a pedlar in the country. He married in 1923, Emma, who was much younger than he. His first poems were published when he was 34.
Most of his poetry is on the subject of nature or life on the road and exhibits a natural simple, earthy style. He also wrote two novels and autobiographical works, his best known being Autobiography of a Super-Tramp
He died in 1940.
He returned to England after an accident whilst jumping a train in Canada, he lost a foot. Upon his return to Britain he led a poor, hard life living in London lodging houses and as a pedlar in the country. He married in 1923, Emma, who was much younger than he. His first poems were published when he was 34.
Most of his poetry is on the subject of nature or life on the road and exhibits a natural simple, earthy style. He also wrote two novels and autobiographical works, his best known being Autobiography of a Super-Tramp
He died in 1940.
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Displaying 1 - 1 of 1 review
January 24, 2015
"A man walks with his heart as well as his legs"
This is an account of former "Supertramp", William Henry Davies's relatively brief walk from Carmarthen, South Wales, back to his London home. It's May, 1910-ish, he's in middle-age, a poet and still in possession of two good legs, one lately wooden. His motive is to tramp again. "Are you tramping for pleasure?", a passing lady tramp asks. "Yes", he replies. No need to beg his daily subsistence this time - he has a comfortable legacy from his writing, his poems and his autobiographical book of living life as a bum in America and Canada. "The Autobiography of a Supertramp" is a favourite of mine since school - the hardback copy I still have bears our school library's stamp as proof - so I was looking forward to this.
For the first six or so pages, I thought I was in for a sorry disappointment. Then things started happening and I caught on to the underlying humour in his writing; wry, mischievous, understated; I'd tuned in. Thereafter, it was a delightful read,ing, a page turner, though I don't know how much of it had been made up for the fun of it.
I don't know about a pilgrimage as such, there's no deep significance to his destination. He does walk it - apart from two trains - but essentially it's a collection of thoughts, anecdotes and observations on peculiar human behaviour, caricature sketches of the Edwardian Welsh and English.
Davies' character is no less stranger than the folk he meets. He's continually in the habit of giving a penny to every child he came upon, and at least tuppence to each passing tramp or beggar. He also seems disinclined to pass a pub without trying its beer. As most of the commercial transactions he makes – beer, meals and board - amounted to not much more than a shilling (twelve pennies) a time, and no mention is made of stopping at banks or suchlike, it’s fair to imagine his pockets are perpetually weighed down with an incredible quantity of small change. Yet, apart from his pipe, tobacco, a sword-stick (on account of his wooden leg and for protection) and a pocket notebook in which to record his material, he claims "to be travelling without baggage of any kind". What a freewheeler!
There's a little of his poetry too, here and there, but I didn't care for it. His prose I enjoy a lot more. A really good read.
The morning after the night I finished the book, I walked the dogs down a country lane and over some fields. It was a beautiful sunny January day and I took care to stand and stare for a bit. It was peaceful except for a hum of distant traffic and an aircraft passed overhead. I met no tramps or beggars, only fellow dog walkers and a troupe of women joggers in yellow day-glo jackets. I kind of envied Davies a bit, him and his moment in time. Then I went home to choose my next book.
This is an account of former "Supertramp", William Henry Davies's relatively brief walk from Carmarthen, South Wales, back to his London home. It's May, 1910-ish, he's in middle-age, a poet and still in possession of two good legs, one lately wooden. His motive is to tramp again. "Are you tramping for pleasure?", a passing lady tramp asks. "Yes", he replies. No need to beg his daily subsistence this time - he has a comfortable legacy from his writing, his poems and his autobiographical book of living life as a bum in America and Canada. "The Autobiography of a Supertramp" is a favourite of mine since school - the hardback copy I still have bears our school library's stamp as proof - so I was looking forward to this.
For the first six or so pages, I thought I was in for a sorry disappointment. Then things started happening and I caught on to the underlying humour in his writing; wry, mischievous, understated; I'd tuned in. Thereafter, it was a delightful read,ing, a page turner, though I don't know how much of it had been made up for the fun of it.
I don't know about a pilgrimage as such, there's no deep significance to his destination. He does walk it - apart from two trains - but essentially it's a collection of thoughts, anecdotes and observations on peculiar human behaviour, caricature sketches of the Edwardian Welsh and English.
Davies' character is no less stranger than the folk he meets. He's continually in the habit of giving a penny to every child he came upon, and at least tuppence to each passing tramp or beggar. He also seems disinclined to pass a pub without trying its beer. As most of the commercial transactions he makes – beer, meals and board - amounted to not much more than a shilling (twelve pennies) a time, and no mention is made of stopping at banks or suchlike, it’s fair to imagine his pockets are perpetually weighed down with an incredible quantity of small change. Yet, apart from his pipe, tobacco, a sword-stick (on account of his wooden leg and for protection) and a pocket notebook in which to record his material, he claims "to be travelling without baggage of any kind". What a freewheeler!
There's a little of his poetry too, here and there, but I didn't care for it. His prose I enjoy a lot more. A really good read.
The morning after the night I finished the book, I walked the dogs down a country lane and over some fields. It was a beautiful sunny January day and I took care to stand and stare for a bit. It was peaceful except for a hum of distant traffic and an aircraft passed overhead. I met no tramps or beggars, only fellow dog walkers and a troupe of women joggers in yellow day-glo jackets. I kind of envied Davies a bit, him and his moment in time. Then I went home to choose my next book.
Displaying 1 - 1 of 1 review