It is easy to sympathize with Lewis’s respect for the tough, independent, bloody-minded fishermen and the eccentricities of the impoverished landowner and priest. He became a fisherman himself in partnership with his friend Sebastian, and the lovingly detailed descriptions of diving and fishing in crystal waters are superb. The two men maintained a safe distance from the professionals, diving only for those fish that the Farol men ignored.

But any illusion that the people in these isolated villages lived an idyllic life, playing guitars and feasting on Elizabeth David dishes, is dispelled by this book. The guitar was despised, the meals were mostly stews of poor meat, and the wine was thin and acidic. Between October and March, hunkering down for the long winter, the fisher­men had to live on the proceeds from their summer catch. Lewis may have made great efforts to fit in and he certainly helped many of the hopelessly innumerate locals order their affairs and avoid being cheated by the French dealers who came down to buy their fish, but he doesn’t seem to have hung around much when summer ended.

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The greatest challenge in writing The House Divided was to maintain balance, not just between Sunni and Shia, but also between the three great identities within the Middle East; Arabia, Iran and Turkey. The book took several years to write (earlier drafts were three times longer), and was based upon many decades of research and travel. But finally, it was edited and complete, in September 2023. As I set off for a break in Rome, the war between Russia and the Ukraine dominated the news and, for once, the Middle East seemed quiet.  I spent the day of October 7 exploring the ruins of the antique port of Ostia, where the Tiber meets the sea and where I heard news of the Hamas massacre of 1200 Israelis outside Gaza. By the time I returned to London, the Israelis had launched a revenge attack on Gaza and the Middle East was set off into a new whirlwind of violence.

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Peter Mayne’s The Narrow Smile, reviewed by James Crowden
for the Royal Society of Asian Affairs
 
Peter Mayne (1908-1979) was a bit of a card, quick witted, suave and genteel. His English friends included Cyril Connolly, Ronald Searle, Francis Bacon and Osbert Lancaster. Just the sort of writer who gets himself deeply embedded by drinking gin and cider in London bohemian Society or drinking tea on the North West Frontier. Pathan and Hampstead codes of honourable behaviour have much in common. The greatest crime is to be boring… Peter had many friends not just in Pakistan. He spent many years in India, first in shipping in Bombay and then in Madras. His father had run a top notch college for Indian Princes - Rajmukar College down in Gujerat.

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Dervla was all about books: reading books, writing books, researching books, and reviewing books – dissecting them with a scalpel. This last metaphor is apt because she said that her other chosen profession would have been that of a surgeon, if life’s randomness had led that way. If her father had found work in Dublin rather than moving to a rural town like Lismore, would Dervla have followed a more conventional educational path and aimed to become a surgeon, of which she often dreamed? Then maybe she would have been Professor Murphy, eminent vascular surgeon, instead of travel writer extraordinaire.

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In 1880 Christian Watt, a woman of forty-seven who was to be a patient for many years in Cornhill, the Aberdeen Infirmary for those suffering from mental disorders, started to write down recollections of her life. She wrote on foolscap sheets of paper in pencil – pen and ink were forbidden within the institution – with a firm, clear hand. Her memory was encyclopaedic, her gift of narration superb. Before she died in 1923, she had recorded the principal events and impressions of a life of ninety years, describing folk and incident of the mid-nineteenth century in a way which, six decades later, brings both before our eyes.

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I am not neutral about Don McCullin.When I was a photography-obsessed teenager,
he was quite simply my God. I well remember sitting in the back row at maths classes 
in 1980s Yorkshire, covertly flicking through the school library’s copy of Don’s
 Hearts of Darkness, transported from a dull world of equations and trigonometry – taught, for duffers like me, in a shabby, paint-peeling Portakabin – to the war-torn jungles of Vietnam and Laos, the darkly barricaded streets of Famagusta and Beirut, the Killing Fields of Cambodia and Biafra. Don’s work was eye-opening, shocking, exhilarating, frightening and deeply disturbing all at once; and for a teenager it was utterly irresistible. Moreover, it
 spoke to a heady and thrilling world of photojournalism that I longed to be part of.

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Brazilian Adventure is as fresh a story today as it was when originally published in 1933.
 
It began with an advertisement in the agony column of The Times: ‘Leaving England June, to explore rivers Central Brazil, if possible ascertain fate Colonel Fawcett; abundance game, big and small; exceptional fishing; room two more guns.’ Colonel Fawcett and his son Jack had embarked on a journey in 1925 in search of a supposed lost city and were never seen again. This expedition was too much of a temptation for Peter Fleming, a young
journalist with energy and an appetite for adventure.

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Lewen Weldon was mapping the eastern desert of Egypt when World War I broke out. A fluent Arabic speaker, he was recruited to run a network of spies and confidential agents who were landed from a steam yacht onto the Syrian coast behind Turkish lines. He took his men to the shore in small boats at night, which also allowed him to land and conduct personal interviews before returning back through the surf. This vivid tale of adventure becomes eyewitness history as we encounter Armenians escaping the massacres, passionate Arab nationalists, resolute Turkish soldiers and a heroic network of Jewish volunteers.
 
Hard Lying was first published in 1926. Read Barnaby Rogerson’s fascinating biographical note on the author and his personal connection with Eland.

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In Africa Dances Gorer takes the reader on an odyssey across West Africa, in the company of one of the great black ballet stars of 1930’s Paris, Féral Benga. This new edition features an afterword from Lamont Lindstrom.

Dancing Together – Black and White
 
Interwar Paris of the 1920s and 1930s was a honeypot buzzing with artists, writers, composers and musicians, many of whom arrived from around the world. Among these were dancer Féral (François) Benga, a Wolof migrant from colonial French Senegal, and Geoffrey Gorer (born 1905), a young graduate of Cambridge University and aspiring writer. Benga, a member of a wealthy, acculturated family in Dakar, had come to France in the mid-1920s when he was seventeen. He survived in Paris selling perfumes until he ran into a relative who admired his physique. Recommended as a cabaret performer, Benga found employment with the Folies Bergère where he became a featured dancer. He performed often with Josephine Baker, including in her signature banana dance. Modernism, and its primitivist shadow, powerfully then stimulated the city’s artistic community. Just as Picasso, Matisse and others incorporated African and Oceanic elements in their work, so did Parisian choreographers blend black themes and bodies within their productions. Dance, whether popular, jazz, or contemporary ballet, in those years combined and expressed both modern sophistication and savage vitality.

Africa Dances was published in 1935 and proved both a critical and financial success. It was also one of the most searing criticisms of the bleak reality of French colonialism to have ever been published.

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A honeymoon these days is rarely the first holiday a couple takes together but it is still a significant way-post on the journey that is their life together. You’ve shed the build-up to the day itself, made a public declaration of your love, said goodbye to the mother-in-law in her preposterous hat and you are finally alone again, with the future laid out before you. It is yours to decide, yours to mould into shape. And that is why writers have been so drawn to the subject. As two paths converge to make one, how will the new, shared future be negotiated? For many of the people in this book, the honeymoon is the first holiday they have ever been on together, and the first time they have shared a bed. Here, before us, are their early, tremulous attempts to define that future.

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It is not often that you get to talk with a beer-drinking prophet, so when I am asked if Eland will ever make a serious profit, I can tell them we have already banked our greatest dividend, talking the world with Dervla Murphy.

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Could the world possibly need another book festival? It turns out that the answer is yes, but not for the reasons you might imagine. It’s always fun for authors to meet some of their readers after the solitary process of writing, but the inaugural festival in Marrakesh turned out to be much richer than that.

Dar Cherifa is a far cry from even the most elegant of book festival tents – one of the oldest courtyard houses in the Marrakesh medina, it dates to the 16th-century and radiates age and distinction from its ornate tiles, plaster and beautiful carved wood. No doubt rising to the challenge of the historic setting, Eland publisher Barnaby Rogerson sits on a table in the courtyard to give a breathtaking exploration of the ancient history of north Africa, ranging from Queen Dido to St Augustine and a number of Berber kings in between. The audience are amazed and delighted that anyone from Europe should know so much about their homegrown heroes, and the vibe is one of mounting mutual respect. When the afternoon call to prayer interrupts Barnaby’s flow, he sits in contemplative silence, simply acknowledging the supremacy of his host culture in a way that endears him even more. The scene is set for an extraordinary weekend of subtle exchange.

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Read Barnaby Rogerson on Ralph and Molly Izzard’s trek across the Lebanese mountains in 1957 with 4 children, 2 donkeys and Elias.

‘Ralph himself was one of three role models from which Ian Fleming created the fictional James Bond. If you have ever wondered what James Bond, having settled down with Miss Moneypenny, might have been like as a father, then you need look no further.’

Jan Morris described Ralph Izzard as ‘the beau ideal of the old-school foreign correspondent … not only brave and resourceful, but also gentlemanly, widely read, kind, a bit raffish, excellent to drink with, fun to travel with, handsome but louche, honourable but thoroughly disrespectful. He was old Fleet Street personified. Not only did everyone in the business know him, but they had also known his father, Percy Izzard, the Mail’s highly respected gardening correspondent who was the inspiration behind William Boot in Evelyn Waugh’s novel Scoop.’

Such was the unusual stamp of the man who took his four young children off to walk the spine of the Lebanese mountains in 1957. Although his name is on the cover of Smelling the Breezes, it is mostly written by his wife. Smelling the Breezes was Molly’s first book and was published in 1959.

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Popular perceptions of Afghanistan have changed radically since the mid-1970s, when I lived there. Before the communist coup d’état of 1978, it was a relatively peaceful and obscure location, and during the following years of civil war Afghanistan remained inaccessible and remote. By the mid-1980s, when I had a draft manuscript of Three Women of Herat, I had a hard time convincing a publisher that sufficient people would be interested in reading about Afghan women. Now, by contrast, everyone has heard of Afghanistan as a site of ongoing conflict – a sinkhole into which vast sums of money have been poured and thousands of lives lost. Situated on the strategic crossroads of Central Asia, over and over again the real needs of this beleaguered country have been disregarded by self-interested neighbours, super-powers and Islamist groups such as al-Qaida and ISIS. Now and then ‘the plight of Afghan women’ resurfaces, but media images tend to stereotype Afghan women as downtrodden victims of abuse and violation – a simplistic message that does not reflect my own experience.

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An Englishman Serving at the Court of a Maharaah

The novelist E M Forster opens the door on life in a remote Maharajah’s court in the early twentieth century. Through letters home from his time working there as the Maharajah’s private secretary, he introduces us to a fourteenth-century political system where the young Maharajah of Devas, ‘certainly a genius and possibly a saint’, led a state centred on spiritual aspirations.

1 Jan. [1913]
So many delights that I snatch with difficulty a moment to describe them to you. Garlanded with jasmine and roses I await the carriage that takes us to the Indian Theatre, erected for the Xmas season outside the Old Palace. But to proceed.

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Usually when I tell someone in Britain that I live in Jamaica they say the same thing: ‘Isn’t that terribly dangerous?’ If they look dull or annoying, I say ‘Yes, very. Chances of survival are frankly low. Don’t go. Try the Dordogne.’ But if they look interesting, I say to them, ‘Not at all, unless you go looking for trouble,’ and we agree that this is true of any country worth visiting.

***

When I return to the UK, recently for shorter and shorter periods, I feel a lassitude settle on me. I don’t have to interact with the people and the environment at all times. The immigration officers aren’t flirting and laughing, no one dares dance in the street, and I am safely cocooned from anything that might harm me. I age too fast in Britain. Take me back to Jamaica.

Experience Flows Away

A couple of days later, hot, dirty and exhausted, I arrived in the outskirts of Chiang Mai in the back of a song taow. The truck stopped at a traffic light. There was a band of small boys by the side of the road, holding a bucket of water. I saw them running towards the truck, but it was still something of a surprise when they emptied the entire contents of the bucket over me.

‘It’s the beginning of songkran,’ the driver called back. ‘You’d better get used to it.’

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Introduced by Barnaby Rogerson

One of the finest British travel books of the twentieth century is Gavin Maxwell’s Lords of the Atlas. It is a book that inspired me as a teenager to travel, and later on to write about North Africa. I must have now read it half a dozen times, with its magic enhanced by each reading. In other books, Gavin Maxwell writes freely about his own life, his family and experiences, but in Lords of the Atlas he hardly appears in the text, the better to focus the narrative on the experience of the Moroccans. Aside from his own researches, Gavin Maxwell was clearly inspired by two travel writers, Walter Harris (especially Morocco that Was) and the three Moroccan books written by the Tharaud brothers.

Jérôme and Jean Tharaud were faithful and truthful observers, dependent on their own experiences which they relate with empathy, but also the sharp eye of actual observation. They were also French, so could not pretend to be innocent observers of the modernization of Morocco through colonial conquest, even when camouflaged as a ‘Protectorate’. However I think you will agree that the extraordinary veracity of their eyewitness accounts, preserves for us the true history of Morocco. We are grateful to Anthony Gladstone-Thompson for making the first ever translation of these books from their original French into a fresh, clear English which Eland is proud to publish.

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Extracted from Barnaby Rogerson’s afterword to Eland’s new edition

Bengal Lancer was published in the summer of 1930 and proved a phenomenal success in both the British Isles and North America. Over 150,000 copies were sold and the London publisher, Victor Gollancz, sold foreign rights to Italy, Spain, Germany, Denmark, Norway, Sweden and Rumania. The film rights were snapped up by Hollywood for fifteen thousand dollars and in January 1935 Paramount released The Lives of a Bengal Lancer, [starring Gary Cooper] which was saluted as one of the great adventure stories of cinema. Francis Yeats-Brown was able to admire the film on its own merits and was amused rather than outraged that it had so little to do with his book. But having read Bengal Lancer, you will understand how difficult it would be to create a film that would in any way be true to the text.

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Extracted from Dervla Murphy’s afterword to Eland’s new edition of The Turkish Embassy Letters

The letters of Lady Mary Wortley Montagu have long been a favourite ‘quote-mine’ for historians, biographers, essayists and travel writers. Yet to most general readers she herself has never seemed more than an astringent commentator on the sidelines – almost a disembodied voice. In our own day, with its over-fondness for labels, she has been referred to as a ‘pioneer woman traveller and/or feminist’, though it is impossible to squeeze her into either category without distorting her personality. Any reader of her letters must think of her, primarily, as an individual: strong-willed, warm-hearted, keen-witted, high-spirited, often unpredictable, sometimes downright eccentric – a woman who rarely allowed her many disappointments and misfortunes to provoke recriminations or self-pity. She was at once stoical and imaginative, gullible and shrewd, childishly vain and touchingly humble, sincere and loyal in her affections but occasionally indiscriminate in her choice of friends. As the years taught her to value wisdom above knowledge, she became wryly self-mocking. And nowhere in her own writings – feline as she could be in her snap judgements – is there anything approaching the scurrility with which she was repeatedly tormented by Alexander Pope, Horace Walpole and their (often anonymous) hangers-on.

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Taken from the biographical afterword

It is impossible to read Lucie Duff Gordon’s letters home to her family without falling a little in love with her poignant joy at life in the face of her imminent death and with her open-minded care for and curiosity about her Egyptian neighbours. It is clear that they, in their turn, both respected and admired her, taking her to themselves in the absence of her own family. What was it that bred such a natural nobility and sense of equality and service in her, when British colonial administrators of a very different stripe were already lining up to exploit the desperate poverty of the Egyptians while trumpeting their own superiority?

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Throughout most of her long life, Sybille remained a keen traveller, almost constantly on the move, living in England, France, Italy, in her middle age writing many articles about her extensive journeys through Europe. Prone to anxiety, she never liked to travel alone, and was nearly always accompanied by one of a series of lovers with whom she lived over the years. While in New York Sybille had begun an affair with a woman almost fifteen years her senior, Esther Murphy, sister of Gerald Murphy, the close friend of Scott Fitzgerald. Tall, ungainly, very masculine in appearance, Esther was kind-hearted, clever and formidably well-read, given to talking for hours on end, drink and cigarette always to hand. With the war over, the two women spent hours poring over maps, examining the possibilities of South America, of Peru, Uruguay, Montevideo, all of which turned out to be far too expensive. So they settled on Mexico.

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