Notes from a Small Island

If you're an Anglophile, or if you have some experience of Britain and its people, I defy you not to laugh through this book. Bryson's wry humor cuts right to the core and is uproariously funny, even though sometimes not quite as sensitive to certain things as we are today.

Bill Bryson takes a sentimental journey around Great Britain in the early 1990s and revisits many places he saw in 1973. Various towns, villages and major cities are on his itinerary throughout England, Wales and Scotland. He describes the people, their habits, manners and speech, and makes incisive and often humorous observations about the architecture of the major office and apartment buildings. He discusses the London Underground Maps displayed on the walls of stations and how they portray only relative locations instead of actual distances. He gives an example of how someone can take an extensive journey through many different places and wind up in almost the same spot. Bryson comments on the the English and how they queue up in patient and orderly ways for long lines at sporting events such as rugby or tennis at Wimbledon. He also visits Stonehenge and marvels at the efforts that must have been marshaled to gather some 600 citizens and drag a fifty-ton stone across eighteen miles of countryside. Once at the Waterloo station, he learns that his train has been delayed because of a fire at another station. He sees a man with a long red beard, waiting patiently for the tracks to be cleared. Bryson asks the gentleman if he’s been waiting long and the fellow answers, “I was clean shaven when I arrived here.” Towards the end of the book, he reports an encounter with a young worker at a McDonald’s restaurant in Edinburgh. The fellow asks Bryson if he wants an apple turnover with his Egg McMuffin and our author gets all huffy about it, saying that if he wanted one he’d ask for it. Must have been out of sorts on that day. If you’ve ever been to England or Scotland, it’s worth the price of this book to take an armchair visit once again and see it through the eyes of a talented traveler.

The golden retriever in a cat suit who sprawls on my lap when I read demotes this book to one star for not being solemn enough. I often writhed with laughter, accidentally dislodging the other critic which left him disenchanted. Since I am the one who can type, however, the book gets all five stars. NOTES FROM A SMALL ISLAND is a tour of contemporary England, taken in 1994 when the author, an American, was about to move his family stateside after two decades on said island. Bill Bryson ranges far and wide, giving us a broad civic tour. He travels by foot, bus and train and, ever so briefly, by rental car. He has a sharp eye for reporting the layers of human endeavor or whim that are stacked on English soil. In his 20 years on that ground, he has obviously absorbed the national penchant for irony and wit and uses adjectives and adverbs like a native. Words like "splendid," "properly" and "crushingly" dot his prose without affectation. He includes a glossary at the back, but is apparently unaware that far more words and phrases that are now second nature to him still require some explanation over here. What is a flyover?Bryson does not hesitate to speak his mind. While he is quick to pounce on folly and annoyances, he is equally quick to offer heartfelt praise where due. Much of the laugh-out-loud humor is at his own expense; he takes a spectacular pratfall every once in awhile. With impeccable rhythm, he integrates observation, history, storytelling and the occasional stand-up comedy riffs (some belonging to the lower rungs of the comedy ladder, some a little higher). The result is that I feel closer to England, have discovered an engaging writer and have toned the abs a bit for all the laughing.

Once again dear reader, I have found myself lining the pockets of a man who time and time again seems to entertainingly tread water while unbeknownst to the us all, the real story can be found only a few feet below the surface.I had already had a go at "A Walk In The Woods" some years ago, attracted by what seemed like a compelling start and Bryson's sardonic and clever humor. Eventually however, I abandoned it about 80% through when I realized it was becoming as arduous as the Appalachian trek itself.But then this guy went and wrote a book on Australia which, having been a home of mine for a good many years, I was unable to resist. For a bit. This time, 70% through, I once again legged it. I found much of what he claimed to observe inauthentically recalled. Poetic license gone wild. Fine for the fiction section but that's not where that book was.As you can no doubt already tell, I'm not that smart. So once again, having also spent 11 years in the UK, and with my UK-residing father frequently bellowing his affections for this author, I was, in a moment of defenselessness, pillaged by the most innocent of Amazon special offers in my inbox. Enthusiastically, with my prior Bryson experiences a distant or reflexively shelved memory, I dove hard into this book looking for wit, easy rolling prose and some expectation of quirk and depth.Only to quickly hit the riverbed and put my back out.I'll say this about the man. He's gifted with words. I have a penchant for English vernacular and a British sense of humor and Bryson does possess it in spades. All this despite his coming from a part of America in which the corn dog is a crowning cultural achievement. But you know Goebbels was pretty good with words too and I wasn't a fan. I know what you're thinking. The comparison is not fair. (If you're in doubt, I do mean to Bryson, not Goebbels).Our friend Bill spends a great deal of potentially illuminating energy huffing and puffing rather than shedding light. Instead of taking us on a journey, he instead garage us along, serving up a detailed account of the ways in which he is peeved. He is content to relay his unlimited supply of utter annoyance, cynicism and unkind thoughts. With great abandon and joy he hurls harpoons at most of what he observes; from the food, to the culture, to a small familial pod of grim, hefty British hotel guests whom he witnesses encircling and devouring a disproportionately large number of desserts. Now look. I've been served potato salad with Shepherd's pie and chips whilst in England. I know things get get a bit starchy from time to time. And granted, not everyone in the UK is Kate Moss. I'm not even sure Kate Moss is Kate Moss, but I felt his ramblings on the unattractiveness of some of those that crossed his path to be somewhat rich coming from a man with a fine face for the printed word.Nonetheless, I was determined - if only to please my gentle natured father - to finish one of Bryson's books for the first time. You know, like I did with almost every other book I ever bought that wasn't by Mr. Bryson. In the true spirit of a book about Great Britain, I elected to keep calm and carry...well you know what I mean, for heaven's sake.In the end, this book offers a reasonable number of witty but all too often disparaging and smug comments that offer little to middling insight into the whys and hows of British character. Little in the way of quirky country flat cap wearing herdsmen. Nothing about the folk who deliver the mail in 364 days of rain a year. Little of the milk man who can tell you that thanks to the odd lonely housewife on his route, delivering milk on a feeble and emasculating flatbedded electric milk float can be a more manly pursuit than one might ever imagine.No, alas not. Mostly just menus, place names and bus schedules. Mostly a litany of complaints, each more mopy than the last about how dreaded the trains, the hotels and (obviously) the weather is. Peppered, of course, with the odd agreeable meal and castle runs. Travelogues are of limited appeal when they comprise largely of the main protagonist trying his best to get the hell away from wherever he is as soon as possible. (Karl Pilkington gets a pass though.) I must say, it's the first time I've ever wondered, in the middle of a book, "If Milton Keynes is really THAT bad then why not just KILL YOURSELF?"In the end of course, after farting, drinking, elbowing the china cabinets, and occasionally declaring a desire to punch the lights out of Britain, Bryson tries to smooth it all over by wrapping up his journal in a patronizing drenching of platitudes about British character; standard fare: their wry, splendid humor, their indefatigable spirit, and the marvel of the green, rolling views from their hilltops. He effuses the gift of living there for decades. He speaks of how he will miss it. He laments, pondering on how he will surely return. But deep down, this last minute effort to redeem the tone of the book sounds a little hollow. A bit like watching a politician speak at the podium with the wife he just cheated on watching stoically at his side, as he speaks of love of family, while trying to apologetically extricate himself from an adultery scandal.In the end, this book, though admittedly appealing to my darker side, seems to be mostly a long description outlining which buses and trains Bryson caught, how inconvenient their schedules were, who annoyed him immensely, and how damn cold and soaking wet he was for a good deal of the time while said annoyance was in progress.Perhaps his familiarity with Britain was his undoing. Perhaps he forgot, after a few decades away from conservative talk radio, all you can eat buffets, and weight loss miracle belt informercials that so much of what he was looking at, was really quite a marvel in the way so much of Europe clearly and obviously is. Sure, it gets complicated. Sure, it has its shortcomings. Sure, pretty much all the shower water pressure absolutely sucks. But then, after cursing while toweling off, you get to walk out the door and see a cathedral that is 800 years old. Or eat black pudding. Or drink your pint on the street outside the pub. In the drizzle. It's a place full of bloody wonders.That all said, I recall now he did in fact have a good many things to say about the bookshops. No doubt, it was encouraging to know there was something worth reading out there.Three stars!

Very funny and entertaining

The humour, the sly digs, the perceptive comments.A genuine love of Britain which shines through any mildly derogatory sentence.

I’ve been meaning to read this book for at least ten years and I finally got round to it recently. I’m pleased to say that it was worth the wait and that I thoroughly enjoyed it.Bill Bryson tells anecdotes from his arrival in the UK in 1973 and from his time working in journalism during the 1980s. Then, in the mid-1990s, he goes on a journey around the UK, along the way considering the things that make this country unique.It’s an interesting look back at life over a quarter of a century ago, especially in terms of prices: in 1994, admission to Stonehenge was £2.80; in 2021, a concessions non-donation ticket is £17.60!The book contains many humorous anecdotes as well as some anecdotes about a few furious rants at strangers, which are entertaining to read and I love how honest he is at including these often unwarranted attacks on strangers!He writes very well and has some interesting observations about the British. His criticisms are few but fair and his praise is frequent and his love for the country shines through.The book flows very well and I always want to read on, which isn’t always the case with a lot of authors. This book is a joy to read.

Well written and humorous. Bill has a way with words that bring you along the trip with him. Enjoyable read

Zoals alle boeken van bill bryson, prachtig boek. Heerlijke beschrijvingen. Vaak tijdens het lezen in lachen uit gebarsten. Wat schijft die man bijzonder