This book was twee, a bit repetitive and plodding (har har) at times, but it hasn’t completely wafted out of my head yet, even though I was quite distracted reading it in an airport and on a plane while being deported. You could call it overly sentimental, sure, but I enjoyed it slightly too much to dismiss it in that way. I like literal journeys (couldn’t be too bothered about the metaphorical one here) and I like pretty descriptions of nature and I like fuddy-duddy domestic characters like Harold and Maureen finding their routines and the smallness of their lives opening up against the unexpected. It’s satisfying, somehow.
Verdict: If you’re in the mood for a tear-jerking mixture of terrible tragedy and sweet, floral Britishness, then this is the book for you. It’s well written and compelling enough to pull you through the slow bits.