The basic premise of Notes from a Small Island is the third most idiotic travelogue I've read: a solo walking and train tour across England in Autumn, when the holiday attractions are closed, the primary weather condition is wet, and since it's 1996, you don't even have the internet as a distraction (Above it are River of Doubt and one where an ex-CIA agent smuggles himself into Iran to look at some shrines). What happens is a long wander through the minor towns of England, a meditation on the character of the English, and a display of their small pleasures, infinite patience, and sheer density of heritage. There are some wonderful little passages, like the suggestion that Communism would've fared much better when done by the English, who naturally love pulling together, standing in lines, bland diets, and faceless bureaucracies. Or everything about W.J.C. Scott-Bentinck, 5th Duke of Portland (google him). But Bryson aptly notes that all English towns are pretty much alike; same Marks & Spencers, same curry shops, same ugly cement shopping bunkers and officeplexes crouching over the decaying Victorian buildings. This book feels maybe 30% too long. The best parts compare the England of the late 70s that Bryson arrived in to the England of the mid 90s that he leaving, but there's too little human interest for someone interested in humans, too little organization for someone interested in places. Bryson loves England very very much, and that loves shines through, but the overall impression that I got was really "Her? Egg?"