Unlikely Pilgrimage Of Harold Fry Quotes

The world was made up of people putting one foot in front of the other; and a life might appear ordinary simply because the person living it had been doing so for a long time.

I miss her all the time. I know in my head that she has gone. The only difference is that I am getting used to the pain. It's like discovering a great hole in the ground. To begin with, you forget it's there and keep falling in. After a while, it's still there, but you learn to walk round it.

People were buying milk, or filling their cars with petrol, or even posting letters. And what no one else knew was the appalling weight of the thing they were carrying inside. The superhuman effort it took sometimes to be normal, and a part of things that appeared both easy and everyday. The loneliness of that.

Harold could no longer pass a stranger without acknowledging the truth that everyone was the same, and also unique; and that this was the dilemma of being human.

If we don't go mad once in a while, there's no hope.

You got up, and you did something. And if trying to find a way when you don't even know you can get there isn't a small miracle; then I don't know what is.

But maybe it's what the world needs. A little less sense, and a little more faith.

Beginnings could happen more than once, or in different ways.

It was not a life, if lived without love.

If I just keep putting one foot in front of the other, it stands to reason that I'm going to get there. I've begun to think we sit far more than we're supposed to." He smiled. "Why else would we have feet?

If we can't accept what we don't know, there really is no hope.

you could be ordinary and attempt something extraordinary, without being able to explain it in a logical way.

He understood that in walking to atone for the mistakes he had made, it was also his journey to accept the strangeness of others.

There is so much to the human mind we don't understand. But, you see, if you have faith, you can do anything.

He must have driven this way countless times, and yet he had no memory of the scenery. He must have been so caught up in the day's agenda, and arriving punctually at their destination, that the land beyond the car had been no more than a wash of one green, and a backdrop of one hill. Life was very different when you walked through it.

I've begun to think that we sit far more than we're supposed to...Why else would we have feet?

The people he met, the places he passed, were all steps in his journey, and he kept a place inside his heart for each of them.

Beginnings could happen more than once or in different ways. You could think you were starting something afresh, when actually what you were doing was carrying on as before. He had faced his shortcomings and overcome them and so the real business of walking was happening only now.

The past was the past; there was no escaping your beginnings.

The least planned part of the journey, however, was the journey itself.

He had learned that it was the smallness of people that filled him with wonder and tenderness, and the loneliness of that too. The world was made up of people putting one foot in front of the other; and a life might appear ordinary simply because the person living it had been doing it for a long time. Harold could no longer pass a stranger without acknowledging the truth that everyone was the same, and also unique; and that this was the dilemma of being human.

But it never ceases to amaze me how difficult the things that are supposed to be instinctive really are.

He wished the man would honor the true meaning of words, instead of using them as ammunition.

...People would make the decisions they wished to make and some of them would hurt both themselves and those who loved them, and some would pass unnoticed, while others would bring joy.

If I just keep putting one foot in front of the other, it stands to reason that I'm going to get there.

Life was very different when you walked through it.

Even when it's sunny I can't enjoy it. I think to myself, Oh yes, it's nice now, but it's not going to last. I'm either watching rain, or waiting for it.

He understood that in walking to atone for the mistakes he had made, it was his journey to accept the strangeness of others. As a passerby, he was in a place where everything, not only the land, was open. People would feel free to talk, and he was free to listen. To carry a little of them as he went.

They had offered him comfort and shelter, even when he was afraid of taking them, and in accepting he had learned something new. It was as much of a gift to receive as it was to give, requiring as it did both courage and humility.

It struck Harold afresh how life could change in an instant. You could be doing something so everyday - walking your partner's dog, putting on your shoes - and not knowing that everything you wanted you were about to lose.

He had felt safe with what he had confided. It had been the same with Queenie. You could say things in the car and know she had tucked them somewhere safe among her thoughts, and that she would not judge him for them, or hold it against him in years to come. He supposed that was what friendship was, and regretted all the years he had spent without it.

You have to believe. That's what I think. It's not about medicine and all that stuff. You have to believe a person can get better. There is so much in the human mind we don't understand. But, you see, if you have faith, you can do anything.

After the two drinks, she felt warm inside, and slightly indistinct at the edges.

We hang on by so little, he thought, and felt the full despair of knowing that.

Despite his obligation to other people, he wished at that moment he had walls.

He was a chap like himself, with a unique pain; and yet there would be no knowing that if you passed him in the street, or sat opposite him in a cafe

There was no escaping what he had realized as he fought for warmth in the night. With or without him,the moon and the wind would go on, rising and falling. The land would keep stretching ahead until it hit the sea. People would keep dying. It made no difference if Harold walked, or trembled, or stayed at home.

His shirt, tie, and trousers were folded small as an apology on a faded blue-velvet chair.

Sometimes her words sliced down on his before they had even reached his mouth.

The kindness of the woman with the food came back to him, and that of Martina. They had offered him comfort and shelter, even when he was afraid of taking them, and in accepting he had learned something new. It was as much of a gift to receive as it was to give, requiring as it did both courage and humility.

There were times... when not knowing was the biggest truth, and you had to stay with that.

In walking, he unleashed the past that he had spent twenty years seeking to avoid, and now it chattered and played through his head with a wild energy that was its own.

They believed in him. They had looked at him in his yachting shoes, and listened to what he said, and they had made a decision in their hearts and minds to ignore the evidence and to imagine something bigger and something infinitely more beautiful than the obvious.

Nobody is so frightening once you stop and listen, Maureen.

He had wanted more than he could physically give, and so his walk had become a battle against himself, and he had failed.

In order to succeed he must remain true to the feeling that had inspired him in the first place. It didn’t matter that other people would do it in a different way; in fact, this was inevitable. …. He had a different map, one made up of all the people and places he had passed.

... He went under the stars, and the tender light of the moon, when it hung like an eyelash and the tree trunks shone like bones. He walked through wind and weather, and beneath sun-bleached skies. It seemed to Harold that he had been waiting all his life to walk. He no longer knew how far he had come, but only that he was going forward. The pale Cotswold stone became the red brick of Warwickshire, and the land flattened into middle England. Harold reached his hand to his mouth to brush away a fly, and felt a beard growing in thick tufts. Queenie would live. He knew it.

The only difference is that I am getting used to the pain. It’s like discovering a great hole in the ground. To begin with, you forget it’s there and you keep falling in. After a while, it’s still there, but you learn to walk round it.

Houses don't clean themselves, she'd mutter. Sometimes she cleaned the bits she had just cleaned. It wasn't like living in a house, but more a question hovering over the surfaces.

(She cupped his face in her palms.) They were so close now that his features lost distinction and all she could see was the feeling she had for him.

He had been guilty once or twice of believing he understood, only to discover he did not... There were times, he saw, when not knowing was the biggest truth, and you had to stay with that.

He knew he was going to reach Berwick, and that all he had to do was to place one foot in front of the other. The simplicity of it was joyful. If he kept going forward, he would of course arrive.

And what no one else knew was the appalling weight of the thing they were carrying inside. The inhuman effort it took sometimes to be normal, and a part of things that appeared both easy and everyday. The loneliness of that. Moved and

He visited the cathedral, and sat in its chilled light, pouring like water from above. He reminded himself that centuries ago men had built churches, bridges, and ships, all of them a leap of madness and faith, if you thought about it.

Again he felt in a profound way that he was both inside and outside what he saw; that he was bith connected, and passing through. Harold began to understand that this was also the truth about his walk. He was both a part of things, and not.

The regrets about all she had let go flooded her. Where had all that enterprise gone? All that energy? Why had she never traveled? Or had more sex when she could? She had bleached and annihilated every waking moment of the last twenty years. Anything, rather than feel.

She had stayed because, however lonely she was with Harold, the world without him would be even more desolate.

It was hard to understand a little and then walk away.

I always got cross with Elizabeth for leaving the top off the toothpaste. Now I throw it away as soon as I open a new tube. I find I dont´t want the lid.

Beginnings could happen more than once, or in different ways

He saw that people would make the decisions they wished to make, and some of them would hurt both themselves and those who loved them, and some would pass unnoticed, while others would bring joy.

As time passed and he found his rhythm, he began to feel more certain. England opened up beneath his feet, and the feeling of freedom, of pushing into the unknown, was so exhilarating he had to smile.

Harold walked with these strangers and listened. He judged no one, although as the day wore on, and time and places began to melt, he couldn't remember if the tax inspector wore no shoes or had a parrot on his shoulder. It no longer mattered. He had learned that it was the smallness of people that filled him with wonder and tenderness, and the loneliness of that too. The world was made up of people putting one foot in front of the other; and a life might appear ordinary simply because the person living it had been doing so for a long time. Harold could no longer pass a stranger without acknowledging the truth that everyone was the same, and also unique; and that this was the dilemma of being human.

I admit I am wearing the wrong clothes. And I also admit I have not the training, or the physique, for my walk. I can’t explain why I think I can get there, when all the odds are against it. But I do. Even when a big part of me is saying I should give up, I can’t. Even when I don’t want to keep going, I still do.

I miss her all the time. I know in my head that she has gone, but I still keep looking. The only difference is that I am getting used to the pain. It’s like discovering a great hole in the ground. To begin with, you forget it’s there and you keep falling in. After a while, it’s still there, but you learn to walk round it.

In order to succeed he must remain true to the feeling that had inspired him in the first place. It didn't matter that other people would do it in a different way; in fact this was inevitable. He would keep to the roads because, despite the odd fast car, he felt safer there. It didn't matter that he had no mobile phone. It didn't matter that he had not planned his route, or brought a road map. He had a different map, and that was the one in his mind, made up of all the people and places he had passed. He would also stick to his yachting shoes because, despite the wear and tear, they were his. He saw that when a person becomes estranged from the things they know, and is a passerby, strange things take on a new significance. And knowing this, it seemed important to allow himself to be true to the instincts that made him Harold, as opposed to anyone else.

He had never been good at expressing himself. What he felt was so big it was difficult to find the words, and even if he could, it was hardly appropriate to write them to someone he had not contacted in twenty years.

When the doctors told us she was dying I held her hand and gave up. We both did. I know it wouldn’t have made any difference in the end but I wish I had let her see how much I wanted to keep her. I should have raged, Maureen.

For a while it there was only the silence that carried her words. It struck Harold afresh how life could change in an instant. You could be doing something so everyday—walking your partner’s dog, putting on your shoes—and not knowing that everything you wanted you were about to lose.

The superhuman effort it took sometimes to be normal, and a part of things that appeared both easy and everyday.

He would return to the old life he had almost forgotten, where people staked trinkets between themselves and the outside world.

He needed the very famous actor to know that you could be ordinary and attempt something extraordinary, without being able to explain it in a logical way.

Unser Geist ist viel groesser,, als wir begreifen. Wenn wir fest an etwas glauben, koennen wir alles schaffen.

Harold hatte einen Anfang gemacht, und damit kam schon das Ende in Sicht.

Die Leute kauften Milch, tankten ihre Autos auf, brachten Briefe zur Post. Und niemand wusste, welche entsetzliche Last sie mit sich herumschleppten.

Welche unmenschliche Anstrengung es sie manchmal kostete, normal zu erscheinen, zugehoerig zur scheinbar so einfachen Welt des Alltaeglichen.

Wenn er den Blick immer auf die Dinge gerichtet hielt, die groesser waren als er selbst, dann wuerde er es nach Berwick schaffen. Ganz sicher.

Eine bereits hinter sich gebrachte Strecke wieder zurueckzulaufen war das Schlimmste ueberhaupt.

Es war nicht einfach, ein bisschen zu begreifen und dann wegzugehen.

Einen Anfang kann es oefter als einmal geben, und immer wieder anders. Man konnte sich auch nur einbilden, neu anzufangen, obwohl man denselben alten Stiefel weitermachte.

Doch als er annahm, lernte er damit auch etwas Neues. Empfangen war nicht weniger ein Geschenk als geben, denn es verlangte sowohl Mut als auch Demut.

Die Menschen denen er begegnete, die Orte, die er durchquerte, waren Schritte auf seiner Reise, und jedem einzelnen von ihnen raeumte er einen Platz in seinem Herzen ein.

Die sichere Welt des Schlafs hatte keinen Platz fuer sie.

Sein Schmerz habe ihn dazu gebracht, sagte sie; der Schmerz koenne Menschen zu den merkwuerdigsten Dingen treiben. Ihrer Meinung nach war Harold auf Selbstzerstoerung aus.

He no longer saw distance in terms of miles. He measured it with his remembering

Maybe it was the walking. Maybe you saw even more than the land when you got out of the car and used your feet.

She looked at him and her heart tipped sideways.

As writers, we must do everything we can to make a world that stands up as if it could be a real one. Not necessarily the real one; not necessarily the world the reader knows. But within its own confines, that world must be plausible. It must add up. After that, the reader meets you halfway. The reader fills out your words with pictures, with breath, with feeling. CR:

Hashtag Harold Fry. Hashtag Queenie Hennessy. Hashtag unlikely pilgrimage. Hashtag hospice. Hashtag respect. Hashtag live forever. I don’t know. Your names seem to be all over the place.

He had learned that it was the smallness of people that filled him with wonder and tenderness, putting one foot in front of the other and a life might appear ordinary simply because the person living it had been doing so for a long time. Harold could no longer pass a stranger without acknowledging the truth that everyone was the same, and also unique; and that this was the dilemma of being human.

Harold was so tired he could barely lift his feet, and yet he felt such hope, he was giddy with it. If he kept looking at the things that were bigger than himself, he knew he would make it to Berwick.

Harold believed his journey was truly beginning. He had thought it started the moment he decided to walk to Berwick, but he saw now that he had been naïve. Beginning could happen more than once, or in different ways. You could think you were starting something afresh, when actually what you were doing was carrying on as before. he had faced his shortcomings and overcome them, and so the real business of walking was happening only now.

He had learned that it was the smallness of people that filled him with wonder and tenderness, and the loneliness of that too. The world was made up of people putting one foot in front of the other; and a life might appear ordinary simply because the person living it had been doing so for a long time. Harold could no longer pass a stranger without acknowledging the truth that everyone was the same, and also unique; and that this was the dilemma of being human.

Sie glaubten an ihn. Sie hatten ihn in seinen Segelschuhen angesehen, hatten zugehoert, was er sagte, und hatten mit Herz und Verstand beschlossen, das Offensichtliche zu ignorieren und an etwas Groesseres und unendlich Schoeneres als das real Sichtbare zu glauben.

They believed in him. They had looked at him in his yachting shoes, and listened to what he said, and they had made a decision in their hearts and minds to ignore the evidence and to imagine something bigger and something infinitely more beautiful than the obvious. Remembering

He watched the squares of buttery light inside the houses, and people going about their business. He thought of how they would settle in their beds and try to sleep through their dreams. It struck him again how much he cared, and how relieved he was that they were somehow safe and warm while he was free to keep walking.

He felt safe with what he had confided. It was the same with Queenie. You could say things in the car and know she had tucked them somewhere safe among her thoughts, and that she would not judge him for them, or hold it against him in years to come. He supposed that was what friendship was, and regretted all the years he had spent without it." p. 201

After that she paired each of her outfits with one of his. She tucked the cuff of her blouse in his blue suit pocket. A skirt hem she looped around a trouser leg. Another dress she wrapped in the embrace of his blue cardigan. It was as if lots of invisible Maureens and Harolds were loitering in her wardrobe, simply waiting fro the opportunity to step out. It made her smile, and then it made her cry; but she didn't change them back.

You’d think walking should be the simplest thing,” she said at last. “Just a question of putting one foot in front of the other. But it never ceases to amaze me how difficult the things that are supposed to be instinctive really are.” She wet her lower lip with her tongue, waiting for more words. “Eating,” she said at last. “That’s another one. Some people have real difficulties with that. Talking too. Even loving. They can all be difficult.

Did you have any yourself?" she said. "Just one." Harold thought of David, but it was too much to explain. He saw the boy as a toddler and how his face darkened in sunshine like a ripe nut. He wanted to describe the soft dimples of flesh at his knees, and the way he walked in his first pair of shoes, staring down, as if unable to credit they were still attached to his feet. He thought of him lying in hit cot, his fingers so appallingly small and perfect over his wool blanket. You could look at them and fear they might dissolve beneath your touch. Mothering had come so naturally to Maureen. It was as if another woman had been waiting inside her all along, ready to slip out. She knew how to swing her body so that a baby slept; how to soften her voice; how to curl her hand to support his head. She knew what temperature the water should be in his bath, and when he needed to nap, and how to knit him blue wool socks. He had no idea she knew these things and he had watched with awe, like a spectator from the shadows. It both deepened his love for her and lifted her apart, so that just at the moment when he thought their marriage would intensify, it seemed to lose its way, or at least set them in different places. He peered at his baby son, with his solemn eyes, and felt consumed with fear. What if he was hungry? What if he was unhappy? What if other boys hit him when he went to school? There was so much to protect him from, Harold was overwhelmed. He wondered if other men had found the new responsibility of parenting as terrifying, or whether it had been a fault that was only in himself. It was different these days. You saw men pushing buggies and feeding babies with no worries at all.