At the beginning of this book, Harold Fry is exactly the kind of old person I am terrified of becoming: boring and bored, belittled by his spouse, a stranger in his own house, living a life utterly without purpose and meaning. Fortunately for the reader, this all begins to change when Harold walks off one day to mail a letter to a dying friend, and just keeps walking.
I like the premise of this book, though the outworking of it seemed somewhat contrived and even gimmicky at times. Perhaps it was just the mood I was in (feeling overdosed with modern literature, which has never been my favourite genre), or perhaps it was the fact that this is the second “first novel” by a new author that I’ve read this month, but I sensed a self-consciousness and bleakness about the writing style which did not appeal to me. While it was not an unpleasant experience to read, this book did not find a home in my head and I shall probably forget all about it in about a month.