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Roumeli: Travels in Northern Greece

Patrick Leigh Fermor,

Patricia Storace (Introduction)

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Apr 27, 2011 Steve rated it really liked it

Shelves: non-fiction, exploration-travel

This is book is filled with 5 star writing, and yet I can't shake the sense that the parts are greater than the whole. But perhaps that's the case with travel writing in general. I'm not all that widely read in the genre, and whenever I do read an acclaimed author and book, I tend to get frustrated. I suppose I like my foreign adventures (and descriptions) wrapped in a story -- or a history. So in other words, I suppose the fault lies with me. This particular book by Fermor is one of his Greek t This is book is filled with 5 star writing, and yet I can't shake the sense that the parts are greater than the whole. But perhaps that's the case with travel writing in general. I'm not all that widely read in the genre, and whenever I do read an acclaimed author and book, I tend to get frustrated. I suppose I like my foreign adventures (and descriptions) wrapped in a story -- or a history. So in other words, I suppose the fault lies with me. This particular book by Fermor is one of his Greek travel books, with a focus (broadly) on the northern part of the country (there's a lengthy (and beautifully poetic) wartime interlude in Crete -- which is way south). The early part of the book has Fermor attending a traditional wedding, with wonderful descriptions of food, drink, and apparel (especially the bride)-- all of which are probably now long gone (the book was written in 1966). What next follows is some monastery crawling -- most of which are located on steep mountains. (How did they build them?) The descriptions are, again, beautiful, but oddly lacking in any descriptions of the art. (In contrast, see Rebecca West's descriptions in Black Lamb and Grey Falcon.) Fermor does mention, at least once, that the paintings are "darkened." In other words, maybe he's seen better, and didn't bother.

Throughout the book, there are several meditations on the Greek personality, which I found circular and boring. I'm sure there are many that find them nuanced and poetic. One particularly wonderful episode, which is actually two, involves a search for a pair Lord Byron's shoes. Fermor clearly loves Byron, and he expends a number of pages on this search. The first part has Fermor and a friend visiting an eccentric 80 year old descendant of Byron's. They are pulling together what information they can for the search, which was prompted by a letter from Greece to the ancestor. The visit ends with a game of pool during a rainstorm. This could of easily been a wonderful short story. The second part has Fermor in Missolonghi (the eventual site of Byron's death) seeking out the holder of the shoes. For me this is the heart of the book, and made the reading trip all worthwhile.

Things sort of tailed off for after that. Fermor continues to ramble about, but throughout all of this, there is a tinge of lament. Fermor sees the Greece that he loves dying in a wave of what we now call Globalism. That which is unique is being diluted, dumbed down or done away with. One poignant episode, late in the book, really made an impression on me. In it, Fermor, traveling on a bus, encounters a young Greek woman traveling with her child. I believe it captures the experience of the book (the best part anyway) in a nutshell:

We had passed a couple of meagre hamlets and the bus had emptied of all but Andreas and me and, in the seat behind us, a pretty mountain girl whose face was alight with candour and happiness. A voluminous black kerchief swathed her head, thick chestnut plaits fell down her back, and she was encased in one of those coats of homespun goats' hair, flaring from the waist and gallooned round the hem and along the perpendicular pockets with a dark red braid, that the call a "segouni." Round silver plaques as big as saucers fastened her woven belt. A swaddled baby in a hewn cradle like a little trough rested across her lap; it had been slung across her back like a papoose when she got in. She looked about fifteen. As she listened to Andreas her eyes grew wider still and laughter covered her face with the spread fingers of one brown hand. (pg. 192).

I doubt you would encounter that woman, in that attire, these days. Anyway, as you can see, Fermor doesn't write -- he paints with words. And that's a rare gift.

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21 likes · Like · see review

Feb 25, 2011 Kristin marked it as to-read

Shelves: travel-literature, greece

Jul 03, 2013 Oana marked it as to-read

Jun 17, 2018 Suzanne marked it as to-read · review of another edition

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