In 2010, Simon Armitage walked the Pennine Way, proceeding north to south in the direction of his home in Marsden, west Yorkshire, reading poetry each night in exchange for his bed and board. He took no money with him; rather, he asked his audience to put whatever they thought he was worth into a sock he passed round, an item of hosiery he would investigate later somewhat trepidatiously in the quiet of a strange bedroom (for which reason, I’ve always wondered why he didn’t just use a hat). He regarded this journey, occasionally lonely and frequently arduous, as a test both of his reputation and that of poetry in general, and his warm-hearted account of it, Walking Home, went on to become a bestseller.
Related: Simon Armitage: making poetry pay | Aida Edemariam
There is a want of feeling in this book, a distance, even a numbness, for which I struggle to account
Related: Walking Home: Travels With a Troubadour on the Pennine Way by Simon Armitage – review
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