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of
something strange in the mind, of something in some way unlike all
other places and people and experiences. The sensation was like that of
the reader who becomes absorbed in Henry Newbolt's romance of The
Old Country, who identifies himself with the hero and unconsciously,
or without quite knowing how, slips back out of this modern world into
that of half a thousand years ago. It is the same familiar green land in
which he finds himself--the same old country and the same sort of
people with feelings and habits of life and thought unchangeable as the
colour of grass and flowers, the songs of birds and the smell of the
earth, yet with a difference. I recognized it chiefly in the parish priest I
had been conversing with; for one thing, his mediaeval mind evidently
did not regard a sense of humour and of the grotesque as out of place in
or on a sacred building. If it had been lighter I should have looked at
the roof for an effigy of a semi-human toad-like creature smiling down
mockingly at the worshippers as they came and went.
On departing it struck me that it would assuredly be a mistake to return
to this village and look at it again by the common lights of day. No, it
was better to keep the impressions I had gathered unspoilt; even to
believe, if I could, that no such place existed, but that it had existed
exactly as I had found it, even to the unruly choir-boys, the
ascetic-looking priest with a strange light in his eyes, and the
worshippers who kept pet toads in the church. They were not precisely
like people of the twentieth century. As for the eccentric middle-aged
or elderly person whose portrait adorned the west window, she was not
the lady I knew something about, but another older Lady Y--, who
flourished some six or seven centuries ago.
Chapter Three
: Walking and Cycling

We know that there cannot be progression without retrogression, or
gain with no corresponding loss; and often on my wheel, when flying
along the roads at a reckless rate of very nearly nine miles an hour, I
have regretted that time of limitations, galling to me then, when I was
compelled to go on foot. I am a walker still, but with other means of
getting about I do not feel so native to the earth as formerly. That is a
loss. Yet a poorer walker it would have been hard to find, and on even
my most prolonged wanderings the end of each day usually brought
extreme fatigue. This, too, although my only companion was
slow--slower than the poor proverbial snail or tortoise--and I would
leave her half a mile or so behind to force my way through unkept
hedges, climb hills, and explore woods and thickets to converse with
every bird and shy little beast and scaly creature I could discover. But
mark what follows. In the late afternoon I would be back in the road or
footpath, satisfied to go slow, then slower still, until--the snail in
woman shape would be obliged to slacken her pace to keep me
company, and even to stand still at intervals to give me needful rest.
But there were compensations, and one, perhaps the best of all, was that
this method of seeing the country made us more intimate with the
people we met and stayed with. They were mostly poor people,
cottagers in small remote villages; and we, too, were poor, often
footsore, in need of their ministrations, and nearer to them on that
account than if we had travelled in a more comfortable way. I can recall
a hundred little adventures we met with during those wanderings, when
we walked day after day, without map or guide-book as our custom was,
not knowing where the evening would find us, but always confident
that the people to whom it would fall in the end to shelter us would
prove interesting to know and would show us a kindness that money
could not pay for. Of these hundred little incidents let me relate one.
It was near the end of a long summer day when we arrived at a small
hamlet of about a dozen cottages on the edge of an extensive wood--a
forest it is called; and, coming to it, we said that here we must stay,
even if we had to spend the night sitting in a porch. The men and
women we talked to all assured us that they did not know of anyone
who could take us in, but there was Mr. Brownjohn, who kept the shop,

and was the right person to apply to. Accordingly we went to the little
general shop and heard that Mr. Brownjohn was not at