Tourist Cla , s THREE fine, indeed outstanding, writers: F. D. °rnmanney,
Robin Fedden and James Morris. Of these, F. D. Ommanney's book will perhaps give most pleasure to the average armchair traveller, since it is such a curious mixture of easily absorbed information and personal, dis- ajrningly uninhibited anecdote. He went to Hong ng as director of a fisheries research team and Was very happy there. In Fragrant Harbour (Hutchinson, /5s.)---the literal meaning of Hong !Cc-I'll—he says that he has 'tried to record what it was like to live for three years in one of the most exciting places in the world.' Extraordinary, yes. Hong Kong seems such an anachronism sometimes that one feels, as with the temples of Abu Simbel, that one should leap Il,nntediately from that armchair and rush off there before it's too late—even though the New Territories, leased from China, still have thirty- five Years to run. The population now is about two and a half million—against 500,000 after the war—most being indifferent to matters of .\-verornent. Yet Hong Kong thrives: as Mr. drive and perspicacity of the Chinese. and to the "exibility and peculiar genius of British rule.- 0nmanney writes amusingly of festivals, the theatre, restaurants, public baths and,' naturally, of fish. He found beauty in the place s furious vitality, the sense of life being lived rder unpromising conditions.' His best friends from Joe's people, like Linda, a hostess °,_rn Joe's Bar, and the children of his amah, 4 Yok. He tried out a blue film and sampled i7eMacao a place where no questions are asked. pa became accustomed to his looks being com- a red to those of Bob Hope or General Kung. A„e!nlic figure in the Chinese traditional drama. ar in his humorous, self-deprecating way he t..li ynts that in the end he was sicked CUnfor- uhatei..,
your age .
(J,1°13in Fedden's The Enchanted Mountains be.'" Murray, 18s.), for all its polished, often v ep,autiful prose, is almost too private and un- i.t-ritfld. The Emtanted M e,...ritains are Los the, a secret, scarcely visited range in is', Spanish Pyrenees, near Andorra. The book hee n account of satisfactions' acquired during 14` trips between 1953 and 1957, culminating hethe scaling of the difficult north summit, where 1041ad to spend the night. Robin Fedden writes riglY of wading through meadows of feathery eass nf lakes and junipers, of fritillaries and orListarts, of Turk's-head lilies and sheep. of rain glacliing on tents, of is roaring Primuses, of hiers, ui glasses of an in mountain inns. The ghl Light was when he and 'John' (Piper?—he
supplies a frontispiece) were captured by brigands (frontier guards really?). The brigand chief looked like Adolphe Menjou. He also was an artist, specialising in hideous sunsets. Out came the violet-smelling brandy, and out came scores of canvases, which John was forced to admire and compare with Turner's.
We sat like some powerless hanging com- mittee whose thumbs could never be turned down. Words soon failed us. We could only nod and mime . . . sunsets exploding in our heads. After the success of Venice, Faber's have wisely decided to reissue James Morris's already highly praised Coast to Coast (Faber, 30s.), first published in 1956, but now 'tempered' and brought up to date. Accurately described as 'a portrait of America in the round, astringently written but con amore,' it is about as exhaustive and brilliant a survey as anybody could hope to find. Whether one would actually settle down to reading it right through without knowing America first, or without intending to go there in the nearish future, is (an ungrateful thing to say) another matter. I particularly enjoyed the bit about the rnountain folk of Kentucky anc Tennessee, speaking an archaic Scots-Elizabethan dialect, with their raggety, barefoot children and earthy religion. Dorothy Carrington is a good writer too, though she has lapses—Ajaccio is 'one of nature's sun-traps.' Suspicions about the integrity of This Corsica (Hammond, 25s.) as a guide- book are at first aroused by an enthusiastic fore- word by the President of the Syndicat
some ghastly, posed colour pictures and an author's note which states that visitors can be sure that all future change, by way of developing the island, will be for the better. Miss Carring- ton is a seven-year resident in Corsica; ob-
viously she is a civilised person who passionately loves the untamed maquis and rocky scenery as much as she enjoys a pastis in a fishermen's caf6. Why, then, should she be so keen to attract the tourist throngs? However, such doubts are soon forgotten, especially when she launches out into her admirable motorists' itineraries, which con- tain some frankly personal recommendations. She even says of Porto: 'So far, mercifully, no holiday camps clutter the valley.' Not that she ignores information useful to those who prefer the 'holiday village' or 'package tour' type of adventure. She has something for everyone, be he speleologist, nudist or hunter of wild boars. There is advice about prices, tips and luggage. A historical summary (not too much) is pro- vided. In fact, This Corsica, taken as a whole, is a really excellent book, readable as well as useful, well thought out and—as with all the best guide-books—strongly impressed with the author's character. If Hammond could build up a whole series of European guides on this level, it would make a fortune.
Now—'Brace yourself for a series of the most wacky, bizarre and totally hilarious misadven- tures ever encountered by Woman.' The larks in Naida Buckingham and Ingrid Etter's Straw in My Camel's Hair (Muller, I6s.), about a secre- tary's experiences whilst working in Switzerland for the western office of some Arab sheikhdom, are rather funny in an unsophisticated way—at first, anyway. 'Mutton was the staple diet all round. And one of my jobs was to make sure supplies didn't run out.' The supplies had to be acquired alive, but the Swiss didn't allow them to be bled. So a special Cadillac drove the sheep into France for this purpose and then returned them to Switzerland to be roasted.
RALEIGH TREVELYAN
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