When I reached the charming little Surrey village of Bishopstowe, I could see that it bore out Kitwater's description of it.

A prettier little place could scarcely have been discovered, with its tree-shaded high-road, its cluster of thatched cottages, its blacksmith's shop, rustic inn with the signboard on a high post before the door, and last but not least, the quaint little church standing some hundred yards back from the main road, and approached from the lych-gate by an avenue of limes.
"Here," I said to myself, "is a place where a man might live to be a hundred, undisturbed by the rush and bustle of the Great World." That was my feeling then, but since I have come to know it better, and have been permitted an opportunity of seeing for myself something of the inner life of the hamlet, I have discovered that it is only the life of a great city, on a small scale.

There is the same keen competition in trade, with the same jealousies and bickerings.

However, on this peaceful Sunday morning it struck me as being delightful.

There was an old-world quiet about it that was vastly soothing.