Bill Bryson, one of my favorite authors, wrote Notes from a Small Island about a trip he took through Great Britain. He had lived in the country for a number of years and the trip was born of a desire to see much of lovely England before he and his wife moved back to the States. I've been reading this book on and off for a couple of months and I've finally gotten around to finishing it. Actually, saying I've finished it gives the wrong idea; I've finished with it. I've gone as far as I'm willing to go right now. I'm about fifty pages from the end and, as of right now, I give up. It's been a profound disappointment, Mr. Bryson, and I'm not sure who or what to blame.
I've really tried with this book because of my fondness for many of Bill Bryson's other writings. He has a wry sense of humor that I appreciate and I usually find that his insights on the places or subjects he's studying are homespun, common sense-ical, and instantly relatable. The Mother Tongue is an illuminating and endlessly fascinating look into the origins and structure of the English language. He manages to give the language character, with a history and personality all its own. His Short History of Nearly Everything should be required reading for every parent with an inquisitive child or anyone who takes being called "curious" as a compliment. (Which it is.) Last but not least, of course, is Neither Here Nor There: Travels in Europe. I've read this many times and I am always delighted in the way in which he explores and enjoys the European land-and-cityscape.
Unfortunately, most of what makes his other writing charming and entertaining is either absent from Notes from a Small Island or it serves only as a minute diversion from what is otherwise just a miserable trip. His descriptions of the cities he visits are all pretty much the same. In fact, I can summarize almost every chapter for you right now:
Bogford-Upon-Lilyshire had such a charming ring to it that, upon seeing it on my map, I knew that I'd have to have a look. I was very excited on the trainride there but, unfortunately, I was disappointed upon disembarking. Apparently, the architects of the late seventies decided to blight what was almost certainly once a quaint village with a glass-and-plastic shopping mall and vast expanses of empty car parks. I thought first I'd try to get lunch but the only shop open was an overpriced teahouse, where I ate anyway without enjoying it. I walked through the town square (now dominated by the massive department store), but the scenery was hideous and the weather was still cold and rainy (surprise). I decided to call it an early night. I booked a room in a horrible hotel and left early the next morning.
This is exactly how he describes most cities, to the point that I now picture every small British town in exactly the same way: unattractive and without redemption. After reading much of it, I've decided that the real problem is that the book shouldn't have been written at all, either because England really is that unattractive or Bryson finds it so. I've never been to any town mentioned in the book, so I can't tell which is true. But I know that I didn't enjoy reading about it.
I love travel narratives and I while I don't think that every place should be described with glowing affection or exaggerated charm, I think that an attempt should be made to enjoy a place. And if it truly cannot be enjoyed, then somewhere around the third chapter Bryson should have said, "Forget it, I'm going someplace both I and the reader can get into." At the very least, even if a place isn't absolutely adored, there should be some variety beyond varying levels of disappointment.
I continue to recommend many of Bill Bryson's other works, but unless you're planning some sort of Masochistic Get-Away for One, you should probably just skip Notes from a Small Island. And if this post seems a bit whiny and critical it's because I just spent a half hour reading the damn thing.
PS- One good thing that came out of the book was Bryson mentioning an affinity for a travel writer named Paul Theroux. I picked up Theroux's The Old Patagonian Express. Looking forward to reading that!
