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Название книги: Notes from a small Island
Автор(ы): Bill Bryson
Жанр: Современная проза
Адрес книги: http://www.6lib.ru/books/Notes-from-a-small-Island-168720.html
Notes from a small Island
PROLOGUE
MY FIRST SIGHT OF ENGLAND WAS ON A FOGGY MARCH NIGHT IN 1973 when I arrived on the midnight ferry from Calais. For twenty minutes, the terminal area was aswarm with activity as cars and lorries poured forth, customs people did their duties, and everyone made for the London road. Then abruptly all was silence and I wandered through sleeping, lowlit streets threaded with fog, just like in a Bulldog Drummond movie. It was rather wonderful having an English town all to myself. The only mildly dismaying thing was that all the hotels and guesthouses appeared to be shut up for the night. I walked as far as the rail station, thinking I'd catch a train to London, but the station, too, was dark and shuttered. I was standing wondering what to do when I noticed a grey light of television filling an upstairs window of a guesthouse across the road. Hooray, I thought, someone awake, and hastened across, planning humble apologies to the kindly owner for the lateness of my arrival and imagining a cheery conversation which included the line, 'Oh, but I couldn't possibly ask you to feed me at this hour. No, honestly well, if you're quite sure it's no trouble, then perhaps just a roast beef sandwich and a large dill pickle with perhaps some potato salad and a bottle of beer.' The front path was pitch dark and in my eagerness and unfamiliarity with British doorways, I tripped on a step, crashing facefirst into the door and sending half a dozen empty milk bottles clattering. Almost immediately the upstair
Название книги: Notes from a small Island
Автор(ы): Bill Bryson
Жанр: Современная проза
Адрес книги: http://www.6lib.ru/books/Notes-from-a-small-Island-168720.html
Notes from a small Island
PROLOGUE
MY FIRST SIGHT OF ENGLAND WAS ON A FOGGY MARCH NIGHT IN 1973 when I arrived on the midnight ferry from Calais. For twenty minutes, the terminal area was aswarm with activity as cars and lorries poured forth, customs people did their duties, and everyone made for the London road. Then abruptly all was silence and I wandered through sleeping, lowlit streets threaded with fog, just like in a Bulldog Drummond movie. It was rather wonderful having an English town all to myself. The only mildly dismaying thing was that all the hotels and guesthouses appeared to be shut up for the night. I walked as far as the rail station, thinking I'd catch a train to London, but the station, too, was dark and shuttered. I was standing wondering what to do when I noticed a grey light of television filling an upstairs window of a guesthouse across the road. Hooray, I thought, someone awake, and hastened across, planning humble apologies to the kindly owner for the lateness of my arrival and imagining a cheery conversation which included the line, 'Oh, but I couldn't possibly ask you to feed me at this hour. No, honestly well, if you're quite sure it's no trouble, then perhaps just a roast beef sandwich and a large dill pickle with perhaps some potato salad and a bottle of beer.' The front path was pitch dark and in my eagerness and unfamiliarity with British doorways, I tripped on a step, crashing facefirst into the door and sending half a dozen empty milk bottles clattering. Almost immediately the upstair
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