62 THE TROUT ARE RISING 



charabanc, yet it apparently travels light. Motor- 

 cars pass perpetually. Some are going perhaps 

 further than Lakeland, maybe into Scotland. 

 Family parties, often with a curly-haired chubby- 

 faced little one nestling in mother's arms, revel 

 in the motor run, the fresh air, the good fun of 

 it all except, perhaps, when the petrol gives out, 

 and even then this entrance into Fairyland must 

 preserve the paternal temper as its owner makes 

 his way to one or other of the local garages for 

 fresh supplies. Motor-bicycles, with the familiar 

 side-car, whizz past. The possibility of accident 

 is avoided, or at any rate reduced to a minimum, 

 by the presence of an Automobile organization's 

 official on point duty at what would otherwise be 

 a dangerous corner. Travellers appreciate him, 

 long a central figure, for not only does he direct 

 traffic with the skill of a London policeman, and 

 with the same confidence give the signal to proceed, 

 but also has he proved himself an encyclopaedia 

 of knowledge on highways, by-ways, and short 

 cuts over a large area. This is his business, and 

 he has been well chosen for the job. He seems 

 to be a director of ceremonies by instinct. 



That main street of Milnthorpe might be 

 termed "a miniature Hyde Park Corner." I 

 remember, when after South-West Africa I spent 

 a short time again in Johannesburg before coming 

 to London, a lady who had just returned to the 

 Rand from England, was talking about the war 

 and said sadly, "... and they just seem to have 

 forgotten how to smile in England ! " I thought 



