I have enjoyed this author's books in the past, and when I was waiting for my plane to take me home from my walking tour in the Cotswolds last summer, a fellow lounge mate recommended this. I live in the age of almost universal Internet access (which may end soon thanks to the spinelessness of our elected officials and the very low price that their votes can be bought for), so I bought it on the spot. Despite the glow of a wondering trip rambling through private lands on public paths in one of the most bucolic places on earth that also hosts a startlingly large number of cozy inns and purveyors of delicious food, I just couldn't get into it.
Now, almost a full year after starting it, I am done with it. In so many ways. The author has become bitter and cruel in his assessment of almost everything except himself, and the beauty of the land. Not the people who inhabit it, for whom he has almost nothing good to say. He is so scathing and seemingly unjust in his depiction of the most minor of infractions that it is painful to turn the pages, wondering what he will next find so unpleasant as to try to ruin it for the rest of us. If that sort of thing is your cup of tea, this is a book that represents an extra strong brew.
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