The opening section, “Some Hints for Those About to Travel,” begins not with a list of packing tips but with a discussion of another book, The Happy Traveller by the Rev. Frank Tatchell. Tomlinson uses this as a springboard to question what drives people to travel—a word he notes is often glossed as “Wanderlust.” The tone is conversational and skeptical, more interested in the psychology of the traveler than in practical advice. The excerpts that follow, including a long anecdote about a captain and a parson known as “the blackbird,” suggest that the book’s real subject is the texture of travel itself: the characters met, the moods of the sea, and the unexpected turns of a voyage.

The Traveler’s Motive

Tomlinson opens by questioning why people travel, using the Rev. Tatchell’s book as a foil. He notes that “Wanderlust” is often used as a flourish by those “uncertain what to do with themselves.” This skepticism sets the tone for the entire work. The excerpts show that Tomlinson is less interested in destinations than in the impulse to move. He praises Tatchell for seeing the world “from the byroads, the highroads, the decks of local trading ships,” implying that the manner of travel matters more than the itinerary. The advice “Be cheerful and interested in everything” is quoted, but Tomlinson’s own narrative dwells on the opposite: the moments of doubt, the “white feeling inside me while gripping a stanchion.” The opening thus establishes a tension between the ideal of the happy traveler and the reality of unease at sea.

The Blackbird and the Skipper

A central anecdote in the first section introduces a recurring character: a parson known as “the blackbird” who delights in joining coastal ships just before a storm. The skipper recounts how the man appears “as pleased as though he’d come into a legacy” when the barometer drops. The crew’s mixed feelings—they would “tip him overside” but tolerate him because he “pays for his fun”—reveal a complex social dynamic aboard ship. Tomlinson’s own decision to join the voyage is swayed by the captain’s invitation and the peaceful cabin with its library. The blackbird’s sudden return, announced by the steward, undercuts the promise of a quiet trip. This episode illustrates Tomlinson’s method: he builds a scene through dialogue and detail, letting the characters’ voices carry the narrative. The parson is never explained, only observed.

Landscape Without Message

In “On the Chesil Bank,” Tomlinson describes a coastal scene that is “pleasing, but strange.” The Chesil Bank is a “whitewashed wall topped by a tamarisk hedge,” with a beach of “tawny and glowing” shingle and a sea empty of ships. He admits it had “no message” and was “as far from my own interests as a West Indian cay.” This frankness is characteristic: Tomlinson does not impose meaning on the landscape. Instead, he records its appearance and his own detachment. The passage contrasts with the shipboard scenes, where human interaction and weather create drama. Here, the land offers only a static, almost alien beauty. The excerpt breaks off before the essay develops, but the opening suggests that Tomlinson’s travel writing is as much about the traveler’s mood as about the place itself.

Readers should approach Gifts of Fortune not as a guidebook but as a series of meditations on the experience of travel, told through anecdotes and reflections. Tomlinson’s voice is wry, observant, and often skeptical of romantic notions. The woodcuts by Harry Cimino, listed in the illustrations, add a visual dimension that complements the text’s focus on ships and seascapes. The book rewards those who enjoy leisurely, digressive narratives that prioritize character and atmosphere over itinerary.