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 
trafic with the skill of a London policeman, and 
with the same confidence give the signal to proceed, 
but also has he proved himself an encyclopedia 
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 
