The road to Burt Reynolds is a long one, and it’s marked with a sign:

NO TRESPASSING

DO NOT ENTER WITHOUT PERMISSION

The sign sits near an imposing home security gate in Tequesta, Florida, a prosperous enclave in Palm Beach County—the area where Reynolds has spent most of his 79 years. He grew up just 13 miles from here, in Riviera Beach, a working-class town that defied its name. Everyone called him “Buddy.”

“Mr. Reynolds is ready for you,” comes a voice from the gate’s talk box. “Welcome to Valhalla.”

That’s what Reynolds calls the place, and only half-kiddingly. The 3.4-acre estate is lush, unspoiled, and secluded—the Indian River on one side, a state park on the other. Even its driveway goes on forever. Finally, after nearly a quarter-mile, comes the first sign of civilization: a residential compound composed of one- and two-story buildings built in classic Spanish Revival style. The compound houses two garages, two bedrooms, an office, and a bar called “Burt’s Place.”

Which is not to be confused with Burt’s House. This becomes clear the instant a burly blond man ambles into view. “This is Mr. Reynolds’s guesthouse,” Todd says, in his genial way. “Mr. Reynolds is up in the main house.”

That’s up the road a piece. There, behind a circular driveway and a grand fountain, stands a 12,500-square-foot waterfront mansion that might be described as Spanish Revival meets Southern Plantation meets Burt-and-Loni. It was here that Reynolds and his second wife, Loni Anderson, played out much of their calamitous five-year disunion, which ended in 1993, accelerating Reynolds’s slide into bankruptcy, foreclosure proceedings, shame, and retreat.

Lately, his absence from public view has fueled doomsday reports. Last year, after Reynolds auctioned off personal possessions—among them the 1998 Golden Globe award he won for his role in Boogie Nights and a gold watch he received from Sally Field—came reports that he was desperately broke. Or worse. During his few public appearances, he leaned on a cane and looked frail. His old nemesis, the National Enquirer, led the media pack: BROKEN BURT REYNOLDS CLINGING ON TO LIFE.

But aside from the rare quickie comment—“I am not broke,” he told Entertainment Tonight—Reynolds remained sequestered in Tequesta. His silence endured until he finished work on a book, But Enough About Me: A Memoir, published this month by G. P. Putnam’s Sons.

Although the book is largely a work of nostalgia—a valentine to those, including Bette Davis, Johnny Carson, Clint Eastwood, and Sally Field, who shaped his life and career—Reynolds agreed to talk about anything and everything for this article.

We met in his living room, an airy, vaguely retro space anchored by an electric-blue rug, a mirrored wall, and two opposing white sofas. He’s seated on the sofa facing away from me and toward a picture window that reveals his pool, his cabana, and his great lawn (which leads toward his boat dock, his helipad, and his private beach).

“Burt Reynolds,” he says. “Thanks for coming by. I’d stand, but you don’t have all day. Old football injury.”

He’s lost a step or two. “Or five,” he says. At times, his hands tremble. He leans his spindly frame on a black cane. He never once rises from the sofa.

Mostly, though, he’s The Full Burt. His outfit—powder-blue sport coat, Western dress shirt, gold watch, gray cowboy boots—is immaculate; his toupee, a silvery masterpiece; his tongue, sharp as ever.

“I’ve lost more money than is possible because I just haven’t watched it,” he says. “I’ve still done well in terms of owning property and things like that. But I haven’t been somebody who’s been smart about his money. There are a couple of actors who are quite brilliant with the way they’ve handled their money.” He smiles. “But they’re not very good actors.”