Review by New York Times Review
"I WATCHED THE RAIN beat down on the road outside and told myself that one day this would be 20 years ago." Why on earth would the weary traveler who consoled himself with this notion, marooned in a shuttered-tight, sodden Welsh mining town, even consider hitting the road again? Anyone who followed Bill Bryson on his trek around Britain in "Notes From a Small Island," published here exactly 20 years ago, will instantly understand. From the very beginning, Bryson, an American from Iowa who has lived and worked and established a family on the far side of the Atlantic, has responded to his British surroundings with an irresistible mix of frustration and fascination. That first travelogue was inspired by what turned out to be a temporary move back to the United States. This new one, which begins with Bryson taking a challenging (and, he mischievously observes, not entirely accurate) test to qualify for dual citizenship, has him questioning how much he really understands modern Britain, "a country that I don't altogether recognize." Has he just become older and crankier? Or have the places he first knew as a young man really changed? There's a simple way to find out. He has a plan, of sorts. Rather than retrace his old route (which was, to put it mildly, somewhat improvisational), Bryson calculates the longest distance you can travel in Britain in a straight line, from Bognor Regis in the south to Cape Wrath in the north, christens it the Bryson Line and decides to begin at one end and finish at the other, visiting it from time to time but otherwise fetching up wherever he pleases. After all, as he explains elsewhere, "the first principle of a British system is that it should only appear systematic." As in his previous outing, Bryson uses visits to historic sites like Runnymede and Sutton Hoo to ruminate on the facts and fantasies of Britain's past and the various people who populated it. An outing in the New Forest prompts a discussion of Arthur Conan Doyle's spiritualism; in Oxford, we hear the story of Roger Bannister during a detour to see the track where he ran the first sub-four-minute mile. And so the journey continues, from the tranquillity of the Cornish fishing village of Mouse-hole to the turbulence of a soccer match in Liverpool, from the sadly diminished down-market resort of Blackpool to the orderly and unshowily prosperous Scottish tourist town of Ullapool. Bryson can't resist a few sentimental return trips. Virginia Water, where he found his first job, at a very casually run insane asylum (now turned into a gated compound of "executive homes"), is disappointing, its fine old houses replaced by mansions "in a style that might be called Russian Gangster." Stonehenge, on the other hand, is a marvel, rescued from the badly designed way station of the previous book, whose visitor center exuded "the warmth and charm of an army barracks," by an expansive reconfiguration that prompts several pages of reflection on the grandeur of prehistoric ruins. What Bryson admires most is the site planners' new respect for the landscape, since he remains convinced that Britain's greatest treasure is its countryside: "the world's largest park, its most perfect accidental garden." It's a treasure, he adds, that's endangered because too many people take it for granted. He himself does nothing of the sort, only pausing in his rambles along the footpaths and fields of the glorious South Downs to joke about "the rarely discussed subject of cow attacks." Although he's now entering what he fondly calls his "dotage," the 64-year-old Bryson seems merely to have sharpened both his charms and his crotchets. As the title of "The Road to Little Dribbling" suggests, he remains devoted to Britain's eccentric place names as well as its eccentric pastimes, calling our attention to the likes of the Society for Clay Pipe Research, the Pillbox Study Group and the inexplicably popular Roundabout Appreciation Society. He's still apt to seek out the obscure: the ill-tended grave of George Everest, who, as it happens, never saw the mountain that's named for him, or the proposed location of Motopia, a community that would have banished cars, part of which now lies under the M25 motorway. And he much prefers small museums like Cambridge's Scott Polar Research Institute and Grimsby's Fishing Heritage Center to eminent edifices like the Natural History Museum in London, which "can't afford to be a museum anymore, so the directors are stealthily turning it into a food court." Bryson has retained his gift for the casual put-down (the train from London to Cornwall is "like rigor mortis with scenery"), but he's more than willing to allow others to have "reflex loathings" - things they dislike without having to justify or explain them. Among his own: "all pigeons everywhere, at all times" and "saying that you are going to 'reach out' to someone when what you mean is that you are going to call or get in touch with them." While he's visiting Manchester, a quirk in the V.A.T. prompts an amusing rant on what new taxes he might impose to erase Britain's national debt, a list that includes "earphone music leakage" and "walking much too slowly in crowded places." While in "Notes From a Small Island" Bryson praised the "deference and a quiet consideration for others" that he saw as "a fundamental part of British life," now he chidingly observes that "lots of people are governed not so much by whether something is right or wrong as by whether they think anyone's watching." Yet the tone of these remarks suggests that Bryson is often just playing at being a curmudgeon. Essentially genial, he remains devoted to a host of "pleasing Britannic things," from the small (Boxing Day, cream teas, Ordnance Survey maps) to the significant: "On tricky and emotive issues like gun control, abortion, capital punishment, the teaching of evolution in schools, the use of stem cells for research, and how much flag waving you have to do in order to be considered acceptably patriotic, Britain is calm and measured and quite grown up." Which, in the long run, is more important than lamenting that once upon a time "you could (genuinely) conduct any of 231 types of transactions in a British post office." Despite the shoddiness and inefficiencies and shortsighted priorities of "Austerity Britain," Bryson remains a convert. "It is a permanent astonishment to me," he remarks toward the end of his journey, "how casually strewn with glory Britain is." Where else can you visit a modern earthwork sculpture that's "the largest representation of a woman in the world," then drive a few hours south to see a hillside where, for roughly 3,000 years, a giant chalk figure of a horse has been dutifully preserved? And all this in a country where a modest cup of tea is still the most common remedy for anything that ails you, a country where a surprising number of people "become genuinely excited when presented with a hot beverage and a small plain biscuit." Among Bryson's list of 'pleasing Britannic things': Boxing Day, cream teas, Ordnance Survey maps. ALIDA BECKER is an editor at the Book Review.
Copyright (c) The New York Times Company [January 31, 2016]
Review by Booklist Review
*Starred Review* There's a whole lot of went to a charming little village named Bloke-on-Weed, had a look around, a cup of tea, and moved on in Bryson's most recent toddle around Britain. Writing 20 years after his best-selling Notes from a Small Island, Bryson concocts another trip through his homeland of 40 years by determining the longest distance one could travel in Britain in a straight line. Teeming with historical, geographical, and biographical trivia about people with improbable names, such as Oliver Heaviside, and esoteric endeavors, such as the Ashmolean Museum, Bryson showcases both the quotidian and the quirky. This being Bryson, one chuckles every couple of pages, of course, saying, yup, that sounds about right, to his curmudgeonly commentary on everything from excess traffic and litter to rude salesclerks. One also feels the thrum of wanderlust as Bryson encounters another gem of a town or pip of a pub. And therein lies the charm of armchair traveling with Bryson. He clearly adores his adopted country. There are no better views, finer hikes, more glorious castles, or statelier grounds than the ones he finds, and Bryson takes readers on a lark of a walk across this small island with megamagnetism. HIGH-DEMAND BACKSTORY: The best-selling Bryson's fans will queue up for his latest cheering travel adventure.--Haggas, Carol Copyright 2015 Booklist
From Booklist, Copyright (c) American Library Association. Used with permission.
Review by Publisher's Weekly Review
Bryson returns to his adopted country of Britain to revisit some of his favorite sites in this followup to his bestselling Notes from a Small Island, published in 1996. He discovers that some of these places, like Dorset, a coastal city Bryson describes as "rolling perfection," remain relatively unchanged, while others have changed for better or worse. He reports that Manchester, a city he took to task in his earlier effort, has improved, though many of his compliments are backhanded. As usual, he scatters an entertaining mix of wacky anecdotes and factoids (e.g., during an eight-week period in 2009, four people in Britain were fatally trampled by cows) throughout, but his enduring mix of wonder and irascibility is what carries readers through his travels. His wry observations and self-deprecating humor keep him from coming off as a bitter cynic, and his lyrical way with words keeps the pages turning. (Jan.) © Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.
Review by Library Journal Review
Twenty years after the publication of his British travelog, Notes from a Small Island, Bryson has written a sequel. He discourses on the quirkiness of the British highway system, excellence of British universities, glories of the English countryside, magnificence of Durham Cathedral, paleologic secrets of the Dorset Coast, and heroism of the Royal National Lifeboat Institution in Cornwall and worries that the green belt surrounding London faces threats from developers. He turns curmudgeonly, using surprisingly salty language, when describing the indifference of shopkeepers and the general decline in civility of walkers. He castigates museums that are more food court than exhibit space. He is especially disgusted with the lack of basic grammar and punctuation in print media. Nathan Osgood brings an understated wryness to the narration with just enough use of local accents to be engaging. Musical interludes add charm. VERDICT Recommended for those who like travel and all things Britannic, though those expecting to learn about Little Dribbling will be disappointed-Bryson never locates it. ["Fans of Bryson will welcome his reconsideration of Britain and all its quirks. Armchair travelers will enjoy this jaunt through the country": LJ 2/1/16 review of the Doubleday hc.]-David Faucheux, Lafayette, LA © Copyright 2016. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
(c) Copyright Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Review by Kirkus Book Review
Bryson (One Summer: America, 1927, 2013, etc.) takes us on another fascinating cross-country jaunt. In 1973, while on a European backpacking tour, the author landed in England, got a job at a psychiatric hospital, met a nurse there, and married her, thus beginning a lifelong love affair with Great Britain, where he's lived on and off for decades and to which he paid homage in Notes from a Small Island (1996), his first British travelogue. Twenty years later, he again sets out across his adopted land, weaving a great tapestry of historical, cultural, and personal anecdotes along the way. Bryson chronicles his visits to the final resting place of George Everest, a native of Greenwich or Wales (depending upon whom you believe), after whom the Himalayan mountain is misnamed and mispronounced, and his return to Holloway Sanitorium, recalling how the inmates were allowed to roam freely into the nearby town. He expounds on why London is the best city in the world and nominates Oxford as the most pleasant and improved city in Britain, Lytham as the best small town in the north of England, and Morecambe Bay as Britain's most beautiful bay. En route, we meet myriad colorful historical figures, including an esteemed Nobel laureate who took a side job as a gardener and a Scottish marmalade heir/sexual adventurer who restored the stones at Avebury. Bryson takes a stand against litterbugs and those who would build on London's Green Belt, and he delves into the history and methodology of British road numbering and the evolution of holiday camps. No words are minced or punches pulled where he finds social decline; he rails against indifferent British shopkeepers and indulges in more than one violent fantasy. However, the majority of his criticisms bear his signature wit, and the bulk of his love/hate relationship with Britain falls squarely on the love side. Anglophiles will find Bryson's field notes equally entertaining and educational. Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.
Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.
