Bill Bryson

Notes from a small island

Matthew Soeder

My own views on the matter are neatly encapsulated in a song of my own composition called I'm the Eldest Son of the Eldest Son of the Eldest Son of the Eldest Son of the Guy Who Fucked Nell Gwynne', which I should be happy to send under separate cover upon receipt of £3.50 + 50p post and packaging.

‘Is it raining out?’ the reception girl asked brightly as I filled in the registration card between sneezes and pauses to wipe water from my face with the back of my arm.

‘No, my ship sank and I had to swim the last seven miles.’

‘Oh, yes?’ she went on in a manner that made me suspect she was not attending my words closely. ‘And will you be dining with us tonight, Mr –‘ she glanced at my water-smeared card ‘– Mr Brylcreem?’

The parks used to be described on maps as the Upper Pleasure Gardens and the Lower Pleasure Gardens, but some councillor or other force for good realised the profound and unhealthy implications of placing Lower and Pleasure in such intimate proximity and successfully lobbied to have Lower removed from the title.

Corfe is a popular and pretty place, a cluster of stone cottages dominated by the lofty, jagged walls of its famous and much-photographed castle - everyone's favourite ruin after Princess Margaret.

I wasn't quite sure what I was doing here. I looked through racks of leaflets for shire-horse centres, petting zoos, falconry centres, miniature pony centres, model railways, butterfly farms, and something called – I jest not – Twiggy Winkie's Farm and Hedgehog Hospital, none of which seemed to address my leisure requirements.

(and do you know the difference, by the way, between 'village' and 'hamlet'? Surprisingly few people do, but it's quite simple really: one is a place where people live and the other is a play by Shakespeare)

Notes from a small island quotes

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