After eleven years as an alien in London, Paul
Theroux set out on a damp May day in 1982 to
discover Britain by traveling round her entire
coast. Being American was an advantage. He could
write about the British as they could not write
about themselves. He did not want to write about
museums, castles and cathedrals. Nor did he want his
journey to be a stunt; he would not set a time limit
or restrict himself to one means of transport. He
would simply take to the coast and keep to it.
Mainly by train, but walking too, he would
circumnavigate Britain. It was a natural itinerary.
Britain’s coast defined her: ‘the coast belongs to
everyone.’
Naturally talkative, Theroux discovered the candor
as well as the secretiveness of the island’s
people. Staying in bed and breakfasts and small
hotels he found himself on the receiving end of
confidences and strident opinions as well as British
hospitality. He found unadulterated pleasures --
sunlit strands, three-coach branch-line trains, an
invitation to a crofter’s cottage for tea -- and
doubtful experiences -- caravan-lined beaches, stony
cities, a day at Butlins, and the terrors of Ulster
which rule its hard-pressed people. ‘To be anonymous
and traveling in an interesting place is an
intoxication,’ he says, and from Weymouth, with its
welcoming smell of fish and beer, to Cape Wrath, ‘a
beautiful unknown place,’ he communicates that
intoxication in a restless, vivid, opinionated
series of eye-witness impressions. |
