Scenery had become an outrage. There was
no joy, no beauty; nothing was worth living for but that inn. As we
laboured forward we cheered each other by word-pictures of its parlour, its
larder and its cellar. A pork-pie ("porch-peen" I fancy the Yorkshiremen
call it) would probably be there. Eggs, of course. A ham, surely. Bacon, no
doubt. Yellow butter, crusty new bread, and beer. Indeed, let the rest go,
so long as there was beer. But beer, of course, was beyond any question; an
inn without beer was unthinkable.
Thus the miles wore away until, footsore, sticky and faint, we came upon
the hostelry itself--only to find, instead of any grateful sign and the
promise of delight, the frigid words, "Friends' Meeting House," painted on
the board....
That was one experience, over which a veil may well be drawn. The other was
not so long ago, in Sussex, a little before the War. This time we had not
walked, but had done that much more hungrifying thing--we had been for
hours in a motor-car, exceedingly engaged on the task of looking at houses
to let.
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