This book is an account of a walking tour of England by a young man. Mostly, it's full of wry and critical descriptions of the people he encounters. There are odd aunts, strange villagers, haunting fellow hostel guests.
Welch himself was a visual artist by training. He was a promising, public school educated young man when he had a crippling bicycle accident.
His writing consistently describes athletic situations: swimming, skiing, bicycling. Because he wrote so little, though, I'm not certain how important this was to him.
As I read, I felt I was in the company of Paul Theroux. Then I'd feel it was Graham Greene or DH Lawrence. He's such a craftsman of the written word. His skills equal those of the other writers I'm mentioning here. However, it's a shame to compare him to these writers. He simply didn't leave enough writing behind him. Welch feels very accessible. Though his writing has become obscure to us, there is no feeling that he is writing in an obscure way.
You have an oppurtunity to be the first one on your block to get to know Welch. The fun part is that nobody has to know just how easy Welch is to read.