I first suspected that there might be more to Bill Bryson than met the eye when I saw the cover of The Road to Little Dribbling, revealing the sheepish look on his face. The marvelous blue sky in the photograph also hinted that he had his tongue in his cheek, as if sunny days were a common occurrence in Britain. Despite these clues, I fell for his fable about the “Bryson Line,” the shortest distance from the south of England to the north of Scotland. In retrospect, I should have known better, because most walkers and hikers prefer to meander.

            Why on earth would any traveler in their right mind cut through the heart of England, missing most of the interesting landmarks and steering clear of the sea until arriving at Cape Wrath at the tip of Scotland? Can you imagine venturing across Great Britain without visiting the southwest to see Lyme Regis, Penzance, and Tintangel? Surely your route would include Stonehenge, despite its distance from the Bryson Line. Bill was having none of it.

            Ignoring the off-putting title of the first chapter (“Bugger Bognor”) of his travelogue, I began my quest to follow the Bryson Line, thinking of Dorothy on the Yellow Brick Road. I admired Bryson’s candor, “…Bognor has seen better days,” but I couldn’t help thinking of my grandmother’s advice: “If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything.”

            After the bus dropped me off near Bognor Regis I tried to ignore the pouring rain, but was soon forced to seek shelter in what passes as a café in England. I hesitated to order tea because I had no idea when I’d come across a restroom on the Bryson Line. However, it seemed like a cheap way to dry out, so I took the plunge. The extensively tattooed young woman who took my order seemed perplexed by my request. “I’m sorry to tell you that Earl Grey died a long time ago, of gout. Black or green tea?”

            I ordered the green, figuring it would be better for me. She said, “You’re not from around here, are you?”

            I was surprised that she could tell from my accent, because I had hardly said anything. “From across the pond,” I said, “Indiana Jones country, near Chicago.”

            Either she had never heard of Indiana Jones or could care less. “We don’t get many Yanks around here,” she said.

            “I’m surprised that more Americans don’t pass this way. Bill Bryson put this place on the map, you know.”

            “Bugger Bryson,” she said.  “His name is mud around here, so if I were you, I wouldn’t let on that you’re an American. Pretend you’re Canadian. Besides, Bill Bryson’s seen better days.”

           Having the good sense to heed her warning, I decided not to follow Bryson’s detour to Brighton, the first of many of his departures from his route. Indeed, he leap-frogged around the country like the genre-jumping author that he is. Determined to follow the Bryson Line, even if he didn’t, I headed for Oxford. To put things in perspective, Bill led readers on a merry chase before finally getting to Oxford, way past the middle of his book. Had I tried to retrace his steps, I would still be dizzy.

            To be honest, I planned not to mention any of the places that Bill returned to after his ground-scuffing Notes from a Small Island, because I didn’t want to be accused on being a Monday morning quarterback. But I couldn’t help noticing that he put his foot in mouth again by noting that “Oxford is a victim of its own attractiveness.” That’s the least of their problems, because thanks to Inspector Morse, everyone knows that Oxford is the murder capital of England.

            The fact that Bryson had issues with Oxford was what tipped me off. From reading his fascinating book, Shakespeare: The World as Stage, I knew that he was well versed in the Shakespeare authorship question, but he hadn’t revealed which camp of heretics he favored. It was now clear to me that Bryson didn’t buy the leading candidate for the real author, the Seventeenth Earl of Oxford (Edward de Vere). Indeed, had Bryson been in the Oxford camp, I doubt that he would have gone to Cambridge first.

            It was only when I walked along the banks of the river that the parallel between Bryson and Shakespeare revealed itself to me. Even some of the true believers in the Bard of Stratford-upon-Avon acknowledge that he might have collaborated on some of his plays, and there are several theories about the various groups who co-authored Shakespeare’s work. Clearly, the Bryson Line is a play on words, alluding to the Bard’s “magic circle.”

            In what amounted to an epiphany, the scales fell from my eyes, revealing the cosmic connection between Bill and Will. Anyone who has delved into the Shakespeare authorship controversy knows the fundamental objection: no common lad from a backwater like Stratford could have acquired the breadth and depth of knowledge to become the greatest playwright in the world.

           Although Bryson appears to be well traveled, it seems impossible that he could write with such authority about entire countries on four continents, produce two dictionaries, write a fascinating biography of the Bard, and publish a definitive book on the human body. Not only did Bryson write A Short History of Nearly Everything, he created an illustrated version. How it possible that one man could master so many genres?

           Indeed, for his next incarnation I wouldn’t be surprised to see him doing stand-up. It’s certainly tempting to want to know who writes his material. As much as I’d love to find out who’s in Bill Bryon’s Brain Trust, the proof is in the pudding. Whether or not Queen Elizabeth and Francis Bacon had a hand in Shakespeare’s plays, or the Queen’s and Kevin Bacon’s fingerprints can be found in Bryson’s books, I’m happy to just sit back and see their stories unfold.