The Road to Little Dribbling

keep forgetting that Bill Bryson’s books are hit-or-miss for me. I’ll read one and think it’s great, then proceed to another and find myself disappointed. Perhaps I’ve already read the good books from his bibliography and now all I’m left with are the ones that aren’t. I’ll usually forget that I’ve been disappointed after a few months or years of not reading Bryson, which inevitably leads me to remembering his good books and giving it another shot. The Road to Little Dribbling is another book I’d put on the “bad” pile.

While I never read the book that preceded this one, I didn’t need any context to determine The Road to Little Dribbling’s major flaw. As a Millennial, I am often annoyed by Boomer-age people who bemoan that things “used to be better.” They’ll moan about prices being lower, quality being better, and everyone living happily together in blissful togetherness. Those sentiments are the entire basis of this book. Maybe it’s supposed to be read as humor, but most of this book felt like the spiteful mutterings of a grumpy old man.

The issue with memoirs is that the main character is usually the author. In this book, the main character is not likable by any means. He talks down to everyone and paints them as idiots. The few slightly amusing bits were only when he proved to be the fool in a scenario that had gotten him hot and bothered. Listening to this audiobook in the car, it felt like I was driving around with someone who I would not have given a ride to in the first place. None of the positives of his journey stuck out to me because every other commentary provided was full of sour gripes.

A memoir full of whiny complaints about how the past was better, I give The Road to Little Dribbling 2.0 stars out of 5.