Thomas Hughes wrote this travelogue in his characteristic style unpretentious, warm, and sharply observant. These ramble through Europe between 1862 and 1866 capture a particular moment in Victorian travel, when the continent was both familiar enough for educated Englishmen to navigate and strange enough to inspire constant marvel. Hughes approaches foreign customs with the curious eye of an anthropologist who hasnt yet learned to be embarrassed by his own parochialism. The book opens with a charming anecdote about selecting a vacation hat, a small domestic pleasure that somehow encapsulates the entire psychology of anticipating escape. What follows is a series of bemused encounters with Continental habits, sharp observations about the gap between English expectations and foreign reality, and genuine delight in the simple pleasures of wandering. Hughes writes letters to friends that became this book, explaining that financial constraints kept him from true luxury travel, so he contented himself with the cheaper currency of observation and reflection. The prose has the easy confidence of a man who knows his audience shares his frame of reference. This is a book for anyone who has ever stood in a foreign square, coffee in hand, watching the locals and feeling simultaneously superior to and enchanted by their strange ways.
