Reviews
No disrespect to Mr Bryson but I just couldn't get on with this. It's funny to a certain degree but I just found it rambling and not funny enough. I didn't actually finish it - I gave up half way through it, after dipping in and out of it for several months.
My husband gives the book a ten. He finds Bryson's style of writing very amusing. I on the other hand didn't laugh as frequently while reading the book. The man presents himself as a bit of a narrow minded twit too much of the time. If one or two people he knows does something strange, then all people like those few must be exactly the same. If his poor planning for the weather, accommodations, travel arragements whatever result in a delayed stay or a poor night, it's the town's fault!
Lovely memoir of travel across Britain from a lovely author. Did he adopt the snarky, straight-faced humour of his host country? I think so, and it's absolutely adorable. The grand metropoleis to forgotten villages - this book has it all. The closest you can get to really seeing Britain without getting off your couch.
Bill Bryson's "A Walk in the Woods," remains one of my favorite travel books, and so I was surprised that this reads like a snarky, blow-by-blow Yelp review of England. Cities I've only heard about in British television shows, he's visited and has a cynical anecdote about some aspect of its architecture, people, or history. Not to say his stories aren't interesting or untrue, but I found myself reluctant to pick up this book, because reading it is like visiting that crotchety loved one to whose rants your most enthusiastic reply is "Interesting," "Oh Really?" or "Hmmm."
Criminally little to say about Wales, and quite repetitive. I don’t think travel books are for me.
I read this in paperback when I moved to England. It's good, but a little slow compared to his more recent novels.
Highlights
(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)
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.
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.
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.
‘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?’
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.
On the royal family
But the worst of it was that I was brought into regular contact with Vince of the wire room. Vince was notorious. He would easily have been the world's most terrifying human had he but been human. I don't know quite what he was, other than it was five-foot six-inches of wiry malevolence in a grubby T-shirt.
I was entrusting my life to a company that had a significantly less than flawless record when it came to remembering to shut the bow doors, the nautical equivalent of forgetting to take off your shoes before getting into the bath.
I had recently read that 3.7 million Americans, according to a Gallup poll, believed that they had been abducted by aliens at one time or another, so it was clear that my people needed me.
I was disappointed to note that nobody on the streets of Calais looked like Yves Montand or Jeanne Moreau or even the delightful Philippe Noiret. This was because they were all Britons dressed in sportswear.
This book appears on the shelf Paranormal
This book appears on the shelf Character werewolf
This book appears on the shelf Pub 2011
