Rachel Joyce| Fiction
2015, 384 pages
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Made it half-way through. I found The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry to be Insipid, implausible, simple, contrived.
Harold sits at breakfast one day with his wife and opens a letter from a long-ago colleague, Queenie Hennessy. Queenie tells him she is in hospice in Berwick-upon-Tweed, which is some 600 miles north of him, and is dying of cancer. He believes he likely has some unfinished business with Queenie. He writes her a short note and goes to the post to send it to her. But he walks past the first postal box and keeps going, past the second and third. By the afternoon he has decided that Queenie will only stay alive as long as he keeps walking forwards her. And so he does.
What I find implausible is that by the evening, when he calls home, his wife Maureen knows that he is five miles north. What wife would not throw a small pack in the car with e few clothes, a pair of shoes, his cell phone, and maybe some snacks, and take it to her husband? Even if their relationship has seen better days?
What I find both insipid and simple is that he meets people who allegedly give him insight. But what he hears is not insightful. Only platitudes, and words that remind him of his past.
The story is contrived … forced, artificial … only the fantasy of the author with no real story. And Harold Fry has no emotional pallet, no depth.
And so I am moving on to whatever is next on my shelf.
May 2026








