Adventures

Wednesday, January 13th., Rue de Calais, Paris.

Horrible muddy weather yesterday. I did nothing but prepare to depart for Menton where I shall meet Phillpotts. I bought two Stevensons and read a lot of "Island Nights". Good sound work but, strictly judged, decidedly mediocre.

This isn't a holiday of course, though it feels like one. And whilst I was packing I got to thinking about holidays past. Unlike Stevenson, I had little longing for adventure as a boy. In particular I had no desire to go to sea or to the pathless forest. And Five Towns boys were not allowed much travelling then. When an infant I had the enormous luck to go several times alone with my grandmother to Buxton. She was losing, and had nearly lost, her eyesight. I was her guide. Once I remember that, in passing a Post Office, she exclaimed excitedly: "I can read the words 'Post Office'!" These were, perhaps, the last words she ever did read. The immense pathos of this didn't strike me at the time.

But the immense romance of going to Buxton struck me. Buxton was twenty five miles off and you had to 'change'. An adventure! I vividly recall the seductive smell of cooking coming up from the basement kitchens of Buxton boarding houses. Fancy, a place set up entirely for leisure, repose, and entertainment; difficult to believe in, even having been there. Buxton is still a most romantic spot for me.

It was also, generally, the destination of choice for the annual Easter Walk on Easter Monday. We went off in a band, girls and boys, and, taking the train at intervals, would do about twenty five miles walking in the day. The crown of the terrific day was a supper of celestial ham and eggs at home at the close of it. One year the walk was postponed to Whitsuntide. We were very lively and had energy enough to do some swimming at Buxton. In consequence, on leaving the town, we had exactly three hours to cover the thirteen miles from Buxton to Leek station. - and a hilly road. We did it, girls as well as boys - and the last five miles in an hour; we must have been nearly running!

Then we had ten miles of train and a final two miles to walk. It was the last two miles in the dark that killed us. The repose in the train stiffened our joints so that we could hardly get out when we got to the station. Still, the heavenly thought of ham and eggs cheered us. We reached home. We bathed. We smelt the smell of the traditional ham and eggs. We sat down to table. We tried nobly to eat ... we could not! We were too tired to swallow! We went to bed of our own accord. This was a tragedy and I shall never forget it. That was my last ceremonial walk. 

And this afternoon I leave from the Gare de Lyon, heading south. Another adventure.