The country fell away from Biggleswick into a plain of wood and pasture-land, with low hills on the horizon.

The Place was sown with villages, each with its green and pond and ancient church.

Most, too, had inns, and there I had many a draught of cool nutty ale, for the inn at Biggleswick was a reformed place which sold nothing but washy cider.

Often, tramping home in the dusk, I was so much in love with the land that I could have sung with the pure joy of it.

And in the evening, after a bath, there would be supper, when a rather fagged Jimson struggled between sleep and hunger, and the lady, with an artistic mutch on her untidy head, talked ruthlessly of culture.
Bit by bit I edged my way into local society.