Dribbling across Britain

As you surely recall, last June I hiked the western half of England's Coast to Coast Walk, across the Lake District from St. Bees to Kirkby Stephen.  A fine and beautiful walk.  But walking that walk, while brisk, perhaps, is not exactly a Himalayan accomplishment.

Imagine my pleasure, however, reading how Bill Bryson -- author of A Walk in the Woods and Notes from a Small Island -- paints the same hike in heroic terms:

I could only fit in the first three days [of the trek], but that took us right across the Lake District from St. Bees to Patterdale -- 42.4 miles.  It was a murderous slog over craggy hills, but the weather was glorious and I don't think I have ever encountered so much continuous beauty while clutching my heart and begging for mercy.

That quotation is from Bryson's latest book, The Road to Little Dribbling: More Notes from a Small Island.  Bryson gives his adopted country another examination, twenty years after his original "notes."  He finds many ways in which Britain has declined over those twenty years, but that decline is mirrored by the many ways -- at age 63 -- in which he suspects himself to have declined.  The "murderous slog" of the Coast to Coast walk may well reflect that personal, physical decline.

Bryson begins his book with a confident plan -- to mosey up the entire length of Britain, from Bognor Regis in the south to Cape Wrath in the north.  He scoffs at the traditional claim that Land's End to John O'Groats is the longest route.  He scoffs at some length but you don't need to understand his scoffing, because once he starts traveling, he essentially ignores either route.  He just gradually ambles in a northerly direction, with some back tracking, and -- according to my Kindle's counter -- devotes only the final seven percent of his book to Scotland.

Bryson has been criticized for this failure to follow his own plan, and for other seeming disappointments.  And if you're looking for a Lonely Planet guide to Britain, or a well organized expeditionary march from the English Channel to the tip of Scotland, you will be disappointed. 

But if you agree that one agreeable way to travel is to putter around, sometimes never getting to a great cathedral because you spent too much time watching a couple of ducks in a village pond, if you feel that an odd name for a village is grounds enough to undergo some hardship to go check it out, if you agree that walking is the best way to see anything, if you like traveling with a friend who worries out loud about what this world is coming to, and what he himself is growing into -- and, essentially, if you've read Bill Bryson's other books and find him a congenial read -- you'll like his latest book just fine.

Bill first visited England when he was twenty, and he's growing a little upset about his now being 63.  And as people getting on in years often insist, the places he once loved aren't getting better as time passes.  Actually, Bryson finds Britain's scenery to be as awe-inspiring as ever -- from the beauties of raw nature to the way that ancient ruins seem to add to rather than detract from the comeliness of the natural world.  But he despairs of humanity.  He observes that Britain is far wealthier today than it was when he visited it as a young man.  And yet the nation then did a far better job of maintaining its treasures and keeping its infrastructure in repair.

If we could afford it then, why not now?  Someone needs to explain to me how it is that the richer Britain gets, the poorer it thinks itself.

Aside from neglect by Britain's government and the carelessness of its people ("the world seems to be filling up with imbeciles"), he repeatedly reminds us of one of the sad features of life, in Britain and elsewhere:

It really doesn't pay to go back and look again at the things that once delighted you, because it's unlikely they will delight you now.

In a word, Bill Bryson has become a bit of a curmudgeon and a bit of an Eeyore -- but we forgive him, because he knows it as well as we do, and because he's funny about it.

In short, Little Dribbling is partly a return to places Bill has loved, which usually aren't as good as they used to be; partly his contemplations on the ever-fascinating topic of growing old (although 63 isn't really ancient); partly a chance to watch a guy wander around, distracted by odd observations of things that most of us wouldn't observe but that prove worth observing; and partly Bill's thoughts about whatever comes to mind, usually triggered by something he sees or something someone says to him.

He's a fairly sensitive guy, but he doesn't take fools lightly (but he usually lambasts them only in his eloquent imagination).  Each day he seems to be looking ahead to the earliest hour he can feel justified in beginning to drink, and an evening of drinking frequently complicates his life and his travels.  He impresses me as a lonely traveler -- although his wife and kids await him at home, not far away, right there in England -- and his personality seems to puzzle or repel the British people with whom he tries to converse, rather than entice them into any more intimate conversations.

I remember how easy it was -- for me, who was far more an introvert than is Bill Bryson -- to meet and hang out with enjoyable people while traveling when I was young.  At 63, for many people, it's no longer so easy.  I think Bryson is one of those people, and he senses it, although he never says so explicitly.  I think this inability to enjoy chatting with others is why he often seems sad, even while being quite funny.  

But Little Dribbling won't be Bill Bryson's last travel book.  Whatever sadness traveling at 63 may induce, it is nothing compared with the sadness of not traveling at 63.  His legs may at times feel ancient, but he certainly still can walk, and he still enjoys walking.  We can look forward to his next bumbling, puzzled, awkward -- but always entertaining -- adventure.