Hilarious and observant.
A book suffused with the sheer joy of being alive.
A fond, funny portrait of Britain ... [There are] belly laughs to befound in Notes from a Small Island ... a kind of Dave Barry-meets-Paul Theroux in a British commuter train.
Notes from a Small Island is, like its subject matter, a delight.
Fort Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel
Irreverent observations ... deliciously satirical wit...In this tour of Britain, you can find no better companion than Bill Bryson.
Publishers Weekly - Publisher's Weekly
Before his return to the U.S. after a 20-year residence in England, journalist Bryson (Made in America) embarked on a farewell tour of his adopted homeland. His trenchant, witty and detailed observations of life in a variety of towns and villages will delight Anglophiles. Traveling only on public transportation and hiking whenever possible, Bryson wandered along the coast through Bournemouth and neighboring villages that reinforced his image of Britons as a people who rarely complain and are delighted by such small pleasures as a good tea. In Liverpool, the author's favorite English city, he visited the Merseyside Maritime Museum to experience its past as a great port. Interweaving descriptions of landscapes and everyday encounters with shopkeepers, pub customers and fellow travelers, Bryson shares what he loves best about the idiosyncrasies of everyday English life in this immensely entertaining travel memoir. Author tour. (May)
Bryson, who hails from Iowa, has spent the last 20 years living in England and writing about the often nettlesome relationship between his two countries, especially regarding their shared language (Made in America, LJ 2/1/95). His latest work is "a kind of valedictory tour around the green and kindly island" before he moved with his family back to the United States. With Paul Theroux's Kingdom by the Sea in hand, Bryson braves the inhospitably soggy fall weather to trudge from Dover, London, coastal villages, Wales, Scotland, and back home to Yorkshire on a helter-skelter seven-week journey that only a reader well versed in the geography of the region will follow, since there are no maps to aid the (American) reader. In fact, Bryson is writing here more for his British fans, who no doubt roar with mirth as he gently pokes fun at their excessive forbearance and fondness for Cagney and Lacey repeats. He is hilarious when transcribing a conversation with unsuspecting locals, especially in Glaswegian pubs, but merely dumb when he indulges in a curious (is it British?) bathroom humor. His portrait is certainly heartfelt, and one wonders, as he chokes up describing a stately, vanishing old England, if he will truly find happiness watching the 67 television channels in his native land. For all travel collections.-Amy Boaz, "Library Journal"
A combination travel guide and loving crack at the mannered manners of Britain written by journalist and long-time resident Bryson whose whirlwind trip around the island before his return to America yielded a number of witty essays on life, love, and beer. Traveling by public transit, Bryson zips from Liverpool to Stonehenge to Farleigh Wallop documenting searches for restaurants, pub discoveries, and a "litter festival" in Liverpool. Lacks an index, but a glossary is provided with such gems as the definition of berk (a jerk, though the etymology is more ribald than one would imagine). Annotation c. Book News, Inc., Portland, OR (booknews.com)
After two decades as a resident of England, Bryson (Made in America, 1995, etc.) bids a very fond farewell to that sceptered isle, to that promontory of clotted cream.
Before returning to his native America, Bryson launched himself on a seven-week peregrination through the hills and dells, the High Streets and hedgerows of England, Wales, and Scotland. As always, he found most of the towns and the hummocks very much to his liking, indeed. And who wouldn't smile broadly wandering through the environs of Horton in Ribblesdale or Giggleswick or journeying to Milton Keynes (which is, be assured, a place, not an economist)? The main trick to successful hiking, the author knows, is to take a bus or train or rent a car frequently between the beds and breakfaststhe latter being full English and full cholesterol. Of course, not all he encountered was wonderful. "Bradford's role in life," he notes, "is to make every place else look better in comparison, and it does this very well." "Blackpool's Illuminations," he says, "are nothing if not splendid, and they are not splendid." British Rail and the ubiquitous Marks & Spencer are not favorites, either. Bryson also has an eye, unsurpassed by that of Prince Charles himself, for nasty architecture, especially shopping centers. Despite those dark, satanic malls, England delights him. He asks, "can there anywhere on earth be, in such a modest span, a landscape more packed with centuries of busy, productive attainment?" The spelling is American, the writing is English (fat folk are seen to "Hoover up" their comestibles), and the wit is genuine.
A diverting travel journal, for Anglophiles especially. A short glossary (translating such terms as "knickers," "loo," and "George Formby") is provided. A map of the journey (not included) would have been nice, luv. But all in all, a tasty crumpet.
From the Publisher
“Bill Bryson is a funny writer…doubled over belly shakes and seltzer through the nose funny.”
— Globe and Mail
“The year’s best travel book…funny and witty and truthful.”
— Toronto Sun
“The funniest book I read this year – winded by its humor, tears on the cheeks.”
— Ottawa Citizen
“Bryson is first and foremost a storyteller – and a supremely comic and original one at that.”
— Winnipeg Free Press
“A kind of Dave Barry-meets-Paul Theroux in a British commuter train.”
— Sunday Express
Read an Excerpt
There are certain idiosyncratic notions that you quietly come to accept when you live for a long time in Britain. One is that British summers used to be longer and sunnier. Another is that the England soccer team shouldn't have any trouble with Norway. A third is the idea that Britain is a big place. This last is easily the most intractable.
If you mention in the pub that you intend to drive from, say, Surrey to Cornwall, a distance that most Americans would happily go to get a taco, your companions will puff their cheeks, look knowingly at each other, and blow out air as if to say, "Well, now, that's a bit of a tall order," and then they'll launch into a lively and protracted discussion of whether it's better to take the A30 to Stockbridge and then the A303 to Ilchester, or the A361 to Glastonbury via Shepton Mallet. Within minutes the conversation will plunge off into a level of detail that leaves you, as a foreigner, swiveling your head in quiet wonderment.
"You know that lay-by outside Warminster, the one with the grit box with the broken handle?" one of them will say. "You know, just past the turnoff for Little Puking but before the B6029 miniroundabout."
At this point, you find you are the only person in the group not nodding vigorously.
"Well, about a quarter of a mile past there, not the first left turning but the second one, there's a lane between two hedgerows they're mostly hawthorn but with a little hazel mixed in. Well, if you follow that road past the reservoir and under the railway bridge, and take a sharpright at the Buggered Ploughman "
"Nice little pub," somebody will interject usually, for some reason, a guy in a bulky cardigan. "They do a decent pint of Old Toejam."
" and follow the dirt track through the army firing range and round the back of the cement works, it drops down onto the B3689 Ram's Dropping bypass. It saves a good three or four minutes and cuts out the rail crossing at Great Shagging."
"Unless, of course, you're coming from Crewkerne," someone else will add knowledgeably. "Now, if you're coming from Crewkerne..."
Give two or more men in a pub the names of any two places in Britain and they can happily fill hours. Wherever it is you want to go, the consensus is generally that it's just about possible as long as you scrupulously avoid Okehampton, the North Circular in London, and the Severn Bridge westbound between the hours of 3 P.M. on Friday and 10 A.M. on Monday, except bank holidays when you shouldn't go anywhere at all. "Me, I don't even walk to the corner shop on bank holidays," some little guy on the margins will chirp up proudly, as if by staying at home in Clapham he has for years cannily avoided a notorious bottleneck at Scotch Corner.
Eventually, when the intricacies of B-roads, contraflow blackspots, and good places to get a bacon sandwich have been discussed so thoroughly that your ears have begun to seep blood, one member of the party will turn to you and idly ask over a sip of beer when you were thinking of setting off. When this happens, you must never answer truthfully and say, in that kind of dopey way of yours, "Oh, I don't know, about ten, I suppose," because they'll all be off again.
"Ten o'clock?" one of them will say and try to back his head off his shoulders. "As in ten o'clock A.M.?" He'll make a face. "Well, it's entirely up to you, of course, but personally if I was planning to be in Cornwall by three o'clock tomorrow, I'd have left yesterday."
"Yesterday?" someone else will say, chortling softly at this misplaced optimism. "I think you're forgetting, Colin, that it's half term for schools in North Wiltshire and West Somerset this week. It'll be murder between Swindon and Warminster. No, you want to have left a week last Tuesday."
"And there's the Great West Steam Rally and Tractor Pull at Little Dribbling this weekend," somebody from across the room will add, strolling over to join you because it's always pleasant to bring bad motoring news. "There'll be three hundred and seventy-five thousand cars all converging on the Little Chef roundabout at Upton Dupton. We once spent eleven days in a tailback there, and that was just to get out of the car park. No, you want to have left when you were still in your mother's womb, or preferably while you were spermatozoa, and even then you won't find a parking space beyond Bodmin."
Once, when I was younger, I took all these alarming warnings to heart. I went home, reset the alarm clock, roused the family at four to protests and general consternation, and had everyone bundled into the car and on the road by five. As a result, we were in Newquay in time for breakfast and had to wait around for seven hours before the holiday park would let us have one of its wretched chalets. And the worst of it was that I'd only agreed to go there because I thought the town was called Nookie and I wanted to stock up on postcards.
The fact is that the British have a totally private sense of distance. This is most visibly seen in the shared pretense that Britain is a lonely island in the middle of an empty green sea. Of course, the British are all aware, in an abstract sort of way, that there is a substantial landmass called Europe nearby and that from time to time it is necessary to go over there to give old Jerry a drubbing or have a holiday in the sun...