Travelin Travel on the roads of England E is not unadventurous nowadays.
england §—Signyosta have hami -removed everywhere and the countrypeople are suspicious of strangers. During a few days' cycling in Cornwall, I realized the countryside knew a war was pu, said F. L. Stevens. On the first night, I found myself on a lonely road miles from anywhere. The question was: Where should I stay? At last I came across a village among the trees under the hill—just a few fishermen's cottages and a little harbour. There was no hotel, but a house with a sign marked "Bed and breakfast," but the fisherman who answered my knock wouldn't have me in. I went on a few yards and met two neighbours talking over the garden wall. All conversation stopped. I asked them íf there was anywhere I might stay the night. Then one said: "Are you a foreigner?" Well, as I'm a Yorkshireman, I thought they might regard me as one, so I said. "Yes, I'm a foreigner—a Yorkshireman." But that attempt at a joke didn't come off. I was asked point. blank if I was a German, and, as a matter of fact I couldn't find anybody to put me up, and I had to cycle on to the next village. I'm told that travellers in Wales, if they happen to lose their way, are lucky if they find anybody to help them. The sharp con-trests one finds on the English roads today are rather startling. I saw something of the last war, but I don't think I ever felt quite the same sense of strangeness that I experienced when, a few days ago, I travelled along a road on one of the loveliest hills of Southern England and saw convoys of troops active and alert on the green verges under the hedgerows and motor cyclists in khaki dashing along roads heavy with the scent of May blossom and gorse. Well, we're taking no chances. By the way, I'v heard of one signpost that still stands with its arm not pulled out. On it is written "To Berlin"—with the number of miles it takes to get there.
Text read from the printed page and cleaned; old type leaves the occasional error.