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“There we were last summer, having a picnic in a sylvan setting. Birds were singing, the atmosphere was full of soft colours; there were children in gay cotton frocks, their laughter filled the air. Elders sat in a kind of Elysian abstraction. I remember it so well. I remember a certain old lady who sat with her back against a tree, her profile to me. I sat desultorily conversing but gazing at that face which was gazing at her grandchildren. And there came to me out of that old face the face of the young woman she had been. I saw that she had been beautiful, bright and humorous - and it was all there still as she watched her grandchildren. Old age was merely a veil which a moment of vision could snatch off.”

“The last footfall dies into silence. The stillness tingles with the aftermath of noise. All around stand the new cornstacks, unfamiliar shadows, ramparts thrown up suddenly round the yard. An owl detaches itself silently from the darkness of a beam, swoops down into the moonlight and away, now white against a shadow, now black against the moon. A mouse scuttles somewhere in the straw. The gaunt shape of a binder stands in the corner, angular as a skeleton under its cloth. Its work is over until next year.”

“So those three milking under the trees seemed actually present to me for an hour. As Giles 'tugged' (how his polite diction slips from him when he gets down to the job) he would see what I saw, gazing up into that elm; gleams of near-crimson lighting the budding tips of the boughs, boughs that go gesturing up mightily form the trunk, then curve over and hang down delicately. For the eye dwells on a thing as one milks, a bit of bruised concrete, a big spider in a cobweb up in the cowhouse roof; I can see them yet. To look up into such a maze of boughs day by day, and see the bare wood bursting open with new life: wine-dark buds, then the first green, till later he sat under a roof of the small elm leaves scattering coin-like shadows all around him, such would have been Giles's lot.”

“A very old wisteria rose snaking over an arbour. Nearby were tiny roses on a wall, mere tufty buttons that smelled of one's childhood in a horse-pace village. Thin bricks were set on edge around a bed of irises, bricks which had been stamped on by Tudor horses, when they had formed the floor of the old stables. Traces of them could be seen also in the path in the churchyard, like the backs of small old books packed in a bookshelf.”

“How long had his widow lived on here, beside the silent forge, with the grass growing up against the closed double doors, and six-feet-tall mallows drowning the hen-run, the potato-plot, the drying-ground? Piles of washing there must have been in the old days - husbands toiling with horses in smoke, children in and out of dikes and marshes. I imagined her coming through the tall grass of the orchard, with an apronful of windfalls, petals and pollen, and a wispy moth stuck to her skirt.”

“It was a day when, if a man travels, he cannot go slowly enough. At anything faster than a foot pace a man seems to lose life as he goes, on a day like this. So quick and prodigal is nature now. It would make of man a pilgrim. Not only daffodils and the wild arums sought notice, but the blue bird's eye tiny in the grass, the pink and intricate ground-ivy flower. In a cleared coppice perfect bright ovals of severance shone on the hazel butts, and told of expert work with a sharp tool.”

“In the UK cycling was very popular until the end of the 1950's but it really lost out to our love affair with the car. Regaining a culture where cycling is seen as an everyday part of life requires time and effort. Of course in some British towns it never really went away - just look at Oxford and Cambridge. In other places, where the car has been king for many decades, it takes more time.”