vivid and entertaining discussion with Mrs Judy on “modern licence” about which she took a traditionalist point of view. The rain went on and on. Judy took us to visit a local pottery which was run by the third Wadham man we had met in three days. It was very exciting to see a cake of brown clay on the potter’s wheel turn rapidly under his hands into a jug or vase, and we climbed a little staircase and examined piles of newly-glazed crocks in the kiln. The place smelt of cow cake, and there was a little dog made of black wool by the brazier and, framed by the window, the wet green piles of rough timber and a heap of broken pots. Soon we left and said goodbye to Judy, for whom I had a bashful affection seeing her in her native surroundings, with rain on her face instead of leering and wriggling in the hothouse atmosphere of Oxford.

And then Diana and I set off down the road, buffeted by the wind and feeling stiff and heroic. Fortunately we had only nine miles to walk to Broadway – but we had hardly gone nine yards before a big Buick stopped and a pleasant rat-faced young commercial traveller swung us round corners and bumped us on his admirable springs to Broadway in twenty minutes. It was still raining hard in the High Street which was full of false antiquities and pastel paint.

Here Peter’s account stops – but our walk went on. The next day was bright, warm and sunny – I can’t remember where we walked – we saw a folly – I waited patiently while Peter looked for yellowhammers’ nests in the bottom of hedges where the long grass is – but he didn’t find one. It was probably too early, or too late. We walked out of a short shower into the sun half way down a hill – the edge between wet and dry clear on the road. Because we had received so much hospitality our money lasted a week and we did return down the hill to Northleach on the evening of the last day, the smoke from the chimneys of the cottages below vertical in the evening light.