It is a bit difficult to know what to expect with this book, the author was slated for a Nobel, but died before he could be awarded one. The reviews suggest that it relates to a walking tour of Norfolk, while the rings of Saturn are frozen debris floating in space. It consists of endless discursions on seemingly random topics.
However what should be mentioned is the charm of this work. For me, it captured the pedantic, eccentric but utterly charming tone of the Peter Greenaway shorts like Dear Phone and Water Wrackets, narrated by Greenaway and Colin Cantile respectively.
The Rings is not a shaggy dog story in the way that some books are, there is no story to get going, or promised resolution that we are seeking. It is like sitting listening, late at night, in a comfortable old chair, to someone who seems to know everything, telling their gently rambling reminiscences, and if sometimes the stories seem a little to good to be true, perhaps they are.
One of the most purely enjoyable and charming books that I have read in a long time. Like Pevsner, he describes an England that fascinates him, without ever quite understanding it.
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