Notes from a Small Island
4.3 4.3 out of 5 stars | 9,048 ratings
Price: 11.8
Last update: 01-02-2025
Top reviews from the United States
Dennis DeMattia5.0 out of 5 stars
Great author
Reviewed in the United States on May 11, 2023
I don't remember why I bought this book. But I loved it to the last page, and rolled on the floor most of the time. Subsequently, I have bought almost all of this author's prolific work. He can be a tiny bit vulgar, but where he is, it fits. This guy was born in the ole USA, and moved to the UK for 20 years, where he married and had a family. He was about to move back to the US, and decided to go see all the stuff he never had the time to do. (I grew up in San Francisco, never walked across the Golden Gate Bridge, because it would always be available when I had more time.) So, it is a bit of a travel book, a lot of humor, and a real page turner. He then wrote a book on what it was like to go back to the US after 20 years. Then later he picked up and moved Back to the UK, and wrote a book about that too.
Susan4.0 out of 5 stars
Fun book
Reviewed in the United States on March 17, 2024
Always enjoy his books
C. Wakefield5.0 out of 5 stars
my native land
Reviewed in the United States on August 12, 2023
Bill Bryson is a very talented storyteller. One who brings his full attention and skill in weaving stories to any subject that catches his interest. As a naturalized American, I am so
Proud of the clarity and love Bryson gives to his description of my home land. He has caught our humour, habits, mannerisms and more. I have learned about parts of the UK that I have never seen nor am likely to. I’m just sorry he didn’t include Cornwall my adopted county which I believe must have been attached to Maine at some point or as is probably the case N America was attached to Britain.
Proud of the clarity and love Bryson gives to his description of my home land. He has caught our humour, habits, mannerisms and more. I have learned about parts of the UK that I have never seen nor am likely to. I’m just sorry he didn’t include Cornwall my adopted county which I believe must have been attached to Maine at some point or as is probably the case N America was attached to Britain.
Mark in Los Angeles3.0 out of 5 stars
A bleak litany of complaints sure to warm the heart of Anglophiles absolutely nowhere.
Reviewed in the United States on July 6, 2016
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!
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!
Y. Gipson5.0 out of 5 stars
Great book, as expected!
Reviewed in the United States on June 14, 2023
I was given the sequel, if you will, to this book first. Read it, LOVED it, and had to order this one too. Within the first 2 pages, I knew I'd love it also. I'm still reading it and enjoying it all! His writing style is so relatable, funny, and witty, while also being very informative for travel purposes. I wish I'd highlighted all through these books, but as a book lover, it's against my nature to intentionally 'damage' one, so I'll probably have to read them again, especially the newer one for travel purposes. If you love ol' Blighty, I don't see how you couldn't love this (these) books! It also arrived in good time and in the promised condition.
Richard C. Reynolds4.0 out of 5 stars
Amusing and Informative
Reviewed in the United States on August 15, 2016
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.
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.