Letters to his wife Mary Borrow

In Short

This collection gathers personal letters written by a renowned Victorian travel writer to his wife, Mary, spanning the years 1844 to 1858. Whether navigating the canals of Venice, the mountain passes of Greece, or the harsh, icy landscapes of the Scottish Highlands, the author records his fatigue, his sightings of ancient ruins, and his persistent anxiety over travel logistics. Though intended only for private eyes, the letters provide an intimate window into the itinerant life of a man driven to explore, yet forever yearning for the quiet stability of home.

The Story

The arc of these letters is defined by the tension between the author’s relentless impulse to walk the earth and his deep-seated desire for the sanctuary of his cottage. The journey begins in 1844, when the writer finds himself in Venice, exhausted by a circuitous route through Corfu and Trieste. Even amidst the splendor of the Grand Canal, his thoughts remain tethered to Oulton and the family waiting there. He recounts the physical toll of his travels—the "horridness" of the blasted pines on Mount Olympus and the danger of rough, treacherous seas—yet he remains unable to stop.

As the years progress, the tone shifts from the wide-eyed observation of continental Europe to the more grueling, self-imposed challenges of walking tours through Wales and Scotland. By the mid-1850s, the writer’s correspondence is frequently punctuated by domestic requests: pleas for money, inquiries about the rent of a cottage, and updates on his health. He is a man who thrives on the road but grows increasingly irritable with the modern world’s infrastructure. He complains bitterly about the "wretched war" with Russia, the unreliable steamers in the north, and the exorbitant prices of lowland inns.

The final, most intense movement of the book details a long, cold autumn in 1858. The writer treks through the Scottish Highlands, over the snow-covered Corryarrick, and into the Orkney Islands. His accounts become a litany of physical endurance—wading through frigid rivulets, battling wind, and walking dozens of miles in the dark. He is plagued by news of his mother’s death, which casts a melancholy shadow over his reports from Fort Augustus and Inverness. His obsession with "seeing all I can" is matched only by his mounting frustration with the landscape, which he eventually finds barren and inhospitable.

The conclusion of this journey is marked by a profound weariness. Having walked hundreds of miles, the author’s final letters express a singular, overriding goal: to extract himself from the North, reclaim his luggage, and return to the respectability and warmth of home. There is no triumph in the finish, only the relief of a man who has finally satisfied his curiosity and is desperate to set aside his walking shoes. He arrives in Stirling, physically depleted, having seen "the whole of Scotland that is worth seeing," and turns his face toward England for the last time in these pages.

How It Unfolds

The Venetian interlude The author arrives in Italy, exhausted and ready to abandon travel for the comforts of home. He describes the decay of Venice and the harsh, myth-haunted landscape of Mount Olympus, where he narrowly avoided death by thirst.

Domestic demands The focus shifts to the practicalities of a life split between the road and the hearth. The writer balances his need for walking with requests for five-pound notes and concerns about the rising cost of living in London.

The Welsh trek The author walks through the rugged terrain of Pembrokeshire, visiting cathedrals and colleges. He manages the physical toll of the journey—hurt feet and heat exhaustion—while maintaining a constant, anxious dialogue with his wife about their future plans.

The Highland ordeal The narrative culminates in a series of difficult, often lonely walks through Scotland and the Orkneys. The writer encounters old acquaintances in Newcastle, navigates the complexities of local legends, and endures a "Greenland winter" that makes further travel nearly impossible.

The final homeward turn After a logistical nightmare involving lost luggage and uncooperative railway companies, the author reaches his limit. He declares himself done with the North and prepares to rejoin his wife and daughter, closing the cycle of his wanderings.

The People

The central figure is the author, George, a man of intense, almost frantic energy who views the world through a lens of history, legend, and physical challenge. He is both a scholar, eager to copy Runic stones and translate ancient songs, and a man of action, capable of walking forty-five miles in a single day. He is often crotchety and prone to dramatic declarations—threatening legal action against railway companies or lamenting the "shameful" accounts of publishers—yet he is fundamentally anchored by his devotion to his wife.

Mary, known as "Carreta," serves as the vital, steadying force in the writer’s life. Though she is never heard in her own voice, her presence is constant; she is the recipient of his money requests, his complaints, and his descriptions of the wonders he encounters. She manages their affairs at home, handling rents and mortgages, and her letters are the beacon that draws him back from his furthest excursions.

"Hen," the daughter, is the innocent recipient of the author’s small gifts—seaweed, moss, and shells. Her presence humanizes the wanderer, serving as a reminder that behind the rugged, storm-beaten face of the traveler is a man who thinks of his child’s future and well-being. Together, the family represents the "independence" and domestic stability that the author claims as his greatest blessing, providing the necessary contrast to his otherwise transient, solitary life.

In Its Own Voice

"You cannot imagine what a magnificent old town Venice is--it is clearly the finest in Italy, although in decay; it stands upon islands in the sea, and in many places is intersected with canals."

The author describes the initial charm of his destination before the fatigue of travel sets in.

"I have seen an enormous deal since I have been away, and have walked several hundred miles."

Reflecting on his time in Wales, the writer summarizes the sheer scale of his physical exertion.

"I have now seen the whole of Scotland that is worth seeing, and have walked 600 miles; I shall be glad to be out of the country; a person here must depend entirely upon himself and his own legs."

As he nears the end of his final trip, he expresses his exhaustion with the North and his desire for home.

What It's Really About

These letters explore the paradox of the driven man: the search for meaning in the "wild, savage" corners of the world versus the profound human need for a secure, private life. The author is obsessed with the concept of independence, linking his ability to traverse mountains and copy ancient inscriptions to a sense of personal agency. Yet, the text reveals that this independence is fragile; it is constantly threatened by bad weather, physical illness, and the bureaucratic failures of the modern age. Beneath the travelogue lies a quiet meditation on aging, the grief of losing parents, and the realization that the world is a place of transit rather than a place of permanent settlement.

Why Read It Today

Readers who appreciate the grit and authenticity of nineteenth-century journals will find much to admire here. This is not a polished travel narrative intended for public consumption; it is the raw, often cranky, and deeply personal correspondence of a man who did not suffer fools or bad transport lightly. You will feel the biting winds of the Scottish Highlands and the damp, oppressive atmosphere of a London winter, all rendered with a precision that makes the Victorian era feel startlingly immediate.

However, the reader must be prepared for the author’s period attitudes and his intense, sometimes repetitive focus on his own physical comfort and financial concerns. His frustration with the Scottish infrastructure or the "silly" French reflects a worldview that is distinctly of its time—provincial, opinionated, and colored by the prejudices of a nineteenth-century English traveler. The book is not a fast-paced plot but a slow accumulation of character. It stays with you because of the contrast between the grand, historical ruins he visits and the mundane, nagging anxieties of his domestic reality. It is a portrait of a man who discovers that, no matter how many Runic stones he copies or mountains he climbs, the most important journey is the one that leads back to the people who hold his heart.