Notes From A Small Island

While Bryson writes in his own unique style, his work is part of a larger tradition. Travel writing, as a genre, has existed for centuries, and it has developed its own vocabulary of tropes and conventions. From the solitary traveler navigating uncharted territory to the mass tourism of the jet airliner age, anyone who writes about travel necessarily engages with a certain set of expectations, depending on the destination and the intention. Like many other travel writers, Bryson makes a distinction between the identity of the “traveler” and that of the “tourist.” The keen eye of the traveler, for example, can allegedly uncover new insight into old territory, while the supposedly unenlightened tourist is in pursuit of prefabricated thrills. All of this is enhanced or deflated by expectation—a destination is rarely what the traveler originally had in mind, even for all their preparation. Bryson announces his intentions early on: He wishes to “embark on a grand tour of Britain” (5), a phrase reminiscent of previous centuries when young men would finish their education by traveling across the continent of Europe.

Thus, Bryson immediately establishes himself as someone who seeks historical meaning and authentic culture. In visiting Lincoln Cathedral, for example, he is grateful to see it mostly undisturbed by “shuffling troops of tourists” (172), highlighting a paradox of historic preservation: Historic preservation depends on tourism, but tourists are often seen as defiling historic sites by their very presence.

Bryson describes his feelings of disorientation and displacement throughout the book. Recalling his arrival in England 20 years before, he remembers feeling continually bewildered. Describing his attempts to catch the ferry in Calais, he notes that “I had the distinct feeling that no one had ever done it this way before” (25). Though he is making fun of himself, in part, this disorientation serves as a catalyst for self-discovery and discovery of place. Only by leaving behind what he knows and making himself an outsider can the traveler discover who he is and see his adopted home with clear eyes.

What the traveler gives up in intimacy with a place, they hope to gain in objectivity. That is, the traveler is an outsider who can experience places and events without local prejudices and without the familiarity that might render local idiosyncrasies invisible. Thus, Bryson can both enjoy and critique his experiences traveling around Great Britain—usually via his comparisons to his native United States, as is further explored in The Mutual Fascination Between British and American People. His view of the “mighty Thames” is representative of this trope: “The British may think of the Thames as a substantial artery, but in world terms it is little more than an ambitious stream. Put it down in North America and it wouldn’t even make the top 100” (254). British people’s insider perspective prevents them from seeing the comparative smallness of the waterway that is central to the national imagination. Only an outsider can see its true dimensions.

The traveler also experiences disappointment in equal measure to success. That is, the expectations and promises of the journey do not always—or even very often—measure up to the realities of the experiences. Plans are thwarted; places are changed; maps and brochures serve to obfuscate rather than clarify the prospects. For example, when Bryson arrives at his hotel in Cambridge (and this is by no means an isolated instance), he “discover[s] to [his] quiet dismay, it [is] an overpriced modern block and [his] gloomy room [is] lamentably at odds with its description in [his] guidebook” (158). This happens with regularity in any number of travel books, whether they are the product of a modern traveler equipped with the latest technology or the observations of an early-20th-century pioneer making his way through unexplored terrain. Through the clash between expectation and reality, a picture of the writer emerges. Bryson reveals himself through the distance between the Britain he expects and the one he finds, evidence of Travel as Self-Discovery.

Bryson acknowledges many of his influences directly within the body of his text. He cites the work of Paul Theroux, whose Kingdom by the Sea (1983) provides a model. Theroux, too, was an American writing about traveling through England about a decade earlier. Bryson also relies on George Orwell’s explorations of England, though Orwell is a native Briton exploring the distinctions of class within his country. In The Road to Wigan Pier (1938), Bryson finds inspiration to report how Britain has changed, both for the better (Wigan is a much less depressing place than in Orwell’s descriptions) and for the worse: “The pier […] has (inevitably) been refurbished as a tourist attraction and incorporates a museum, gift shop, snack bar, and a pub called, without evident irony, The Orwell” (206). For Bryson, this is another example of tourism undermining the pleasures—and dignities—of “authentic” travel.