A late-night browsing of the list of podcasts to put me to sleep on Castbox brought me upon an audiobook intriguingly titled ‘The Road to Little Dribbling’. Though not a great fan of audiobooks, I played the episode wondering what ‘Little Dribbling’ actually was. Other than the fact that ‘Little Dribbling’ was the name of a place, I must confess I didn’t remember anything of the book the next morning, and don't, even now. But I remembered Bill Bryson, the author of the book and had a faint notion that he was someone that I would like to read, as my present reading tastes were tending towards travelogues. So when I happened upon five of his books at a used book stall (one of them had a '2 for £10 at Waterstone's' sticker on it, though I live a few time zones away from the country that has the Pound Sterling as its currency), at unimaginably discounted prices, I pounced upon them, carting them off before they could be poached by another buyer who was eyeing them seriously. And therein started my Bill Bryson binge.

I realized that I was quite late to the Bill Bryson books but I am glad that it took me so long, 'coz some books are savoured better rather late in life. I can’t say whether I would have derived as much enjoyment as I’m doing now if I had read them, nearly two decades earlier, at the time when their first editions came out.  

‘The Road to Little Dribbling’ was now in my hands as a physical book and yet my heart was set upon starting with his ‘Mother Tongue’, the blurb of which ended with the words “…a consideration of what we mean by ‘good English’, Mother Tongue is one of the most stimulating books yet written on this endlessly engrossing subject”.

And so I turned to the first chapter, titled ‘The World’s Language’ and couldn’t get past the first two paragraphs. A word of warning to the unaware – do not read these paragraphs in a public place, or in a quiet room full of people, or after a meal. The probabilities of exploding in uncontrollable laughter (which may turn out to be an ugly laugh, like an ugly cry), with saliva spurting out and tears running down the face in rivulets, snorting like a pampered pig to take in great gulps of much-needed air and the possibility of gagging on the just-ingested food are very high.

Unfortunately there was no one to give me this warning, and so I read the words, at night, after the whole residential building had settled down for the day’s rest and recuperation. The reading elicited all the above-said responses from me and brought the rest of the family running to my bedside, shocked that I was in some extreme physical distress brought on by a sudden onset of breathing difficulties. Seeing that I was not in any need of immediate and urgent resuscitation, a round of sound rebukes and reprimands followed, which made me put away the book. I have now left it for last, the result of knowing that opening it would almost guarantee a repeat of the same 'reaction,' due to my questionable ability to dial down my laughter meter to the further words in the book. I continued to chuckle away at the recollected words even in my half sleep, now additionally aided by a vivid mental image the words had evoked, and continued to do so at all odd hours, leading those who heard me, to look at me askance and take a step back from me in silent alarm. It is so tempting to reproduce those two paragraphs here, but the thought of leaving someone to discover Bill Bryson’s words on their own terms to enjoy them as they will, is restraint enough to keep me from doing so. All those who have read the book would know exactly what I'm talking about.  

And that is how I came to pick up his ‘A Walk in the Woods’, a travelogue/memoir of his ‘hike through the vast tangled woods which have been frightening sensible people for three hundred years’, the Appalachian Trail. It is a good book, filled with witty observations and least-known anecdotes and the vagaries of human (not ‘Nature’) nature. For people who are familiar with the American wilderness or even the American country, it might turn out to be an enjoyable read, but for someone who has seen America’s national parks (Bryson gives a gem of an observation regarding them) only on television screens, the unrelatable subject of the book was a bit of a dampener. I suppose I could watch the movie ‘A Walk in the Woods’ starring Robert Redford and Nick Nolte as Bryson and Katz, but somehow picturing someone else as Bryson and Katz (I have seen Bryson’s photographs and have my own image of Katz from the descriptions of him given by Bryson, and no, I haven't looked up Katz's photographs) though played by such great actors as Redford and Nolte didn’t swamp me with enthusiasm. Moreover I had taken the trek with Bryson and Katz, on the ground and as Bryson recounts in an interview to Reader’s Digest, I didn’t want to be lifted a few thousand feet up in the air by panoramic helicopter shots showing me the sweeping expanse of the majestic hills and trees. I rather prefer the confined tunnel of the trees, with Bryson and Katz keeping me company every step of the way.

The trouble with reading even one’s most favourite author is that, once you have read one of their books, you wouldn’t want to read another one by the same author right after, but Bryson made me pick up the next one the instant I put ‘A Walk in the Woods’ down. It’s either proof of Bryson’s writing prowess or of the fact that it didn’t hold my interest long enough to make me emotionally involved so that a mandatory cooling off period would be required before picking up the next one. Whatever be the case, right now the book on my table is his ‘Down Under’, his journey to Australia, a country he promptly fell in love with soon after his arrival. I’m just starting on the eighth chapter and find that his trademark style of easy narration, with dry humour and subtle satire, an ability to laugh and not take himself too seriously, coupled with a sprinkling of statistics and plenty of historical anecdotes, is making it a thoroughly enjoyable read so far.

Just to know what I’m talking about, take a peek here.

“Imagine a form of baseball in which the pitcher after each delivery, collects the ball from the catcher and walks slowly with it out to centre field; and that there, after a minute’s pause to collect himself, he turns and runs full tilt towards the pitcher’s mound before hurling the ball at the ankles of a man who stands before him wearing a riding hat, heavy gloves of the sort used to handle radioactive isotopes, and a mattress strapped to each leg. Imagine moreover that if this batsman fails to hit the ball in a way that heartens him sufficiently to try to waddle sixty feet with mattresses strapped to his legs he is under no formal compulsion to run; he may stand there all day, and, as a rule, does. If by some miracle he is coaxed into making a misstroke that leads to him being put out, all the fielders throw up their arms in triumph and have a hug. Then tea is called and everyone retires happily to a distant pavilion to fortify for the next siege. Now imagine all this going on for so long that by the time the match concludes autumn has crept in and all your library books are overdue. There you have cricket.”  

Now that’s writing worth bingeing on!