This book ranks with Byron's 'The Road to Oxiana', Burnaby's 'A Ride to Khiva', Cherry-Garrard's 'Worst Journey..', and anything by Raban, Theroux and the current new pretenders as a classic of travel writing. The plot is simple. Fleming and Ella Maillart travel from Peking via Sian into Sinkiang (i.e. Tartary - the year is 1935) and thence through the Himalayas to India. The adventures are to do with inter-war politics and travel-on-a-budget. The physical beauty of the countryside, its harshness, the enduringly difficult nature of the terrain and the people are sparingly but vividly drawn out. The tone is anti-sentimental, laconic, deliberately flat. Fleming comes across as a quintissential English Hero (which is exactly what he was before WW2 bought travel to millions and redefined heroism).
The book runs on two levels. There is the straight travel narrative, written sparingly and with a good feel for the rhythms, both psychological and physical, of such a journey. Then there is the acerbic, slightly cynical, amused, and detached commentary on the action and the actors - the author being harder on himself than any of the other characters that we meet along the way.
If there is a flaw in this great book it is that in the end it is not quite what it says on the side of the tin. This book is NOT really News from Tartary - the news as the author well knows is really an excuse for making the trip rather than the reason for it - but it is also not quite a travel narrative pure and simple. The author's own detached attitude ends up making the reader similary detatched, uninvolved in the trip itself, and more interested in the author than the road.
But I urge you to go read this book.