I was planning to work on Trials, but I didn’t get much sleep last night, so instead I typed up World War II letters. In the early years of the war, my grandfather was stationed in Northern Ireland, and things were slow enough that he could go fishing in the country on the weekends, usually getting to good, isolated fishing holes by taking a bicycle on the train. Since he didn’t know the area, he often got a bit lost, or as in this case, he ran afoul of country notions of hospitality.

Having allowed a decent time to get back for the last train and being a little cold & very thirsty as all I had had to drink was a bottle of beer at noon, I accepted Mrs. M’s kind offer of a cup of tea. But damn it all they cooked eggs & biscuits and set up a big Sunday night supper—all on an open peat grate. They had lots of bread and big plates of home made butter & some home made cheese. Gee the butter was good. They kept pressing me and time wore on. By the time I got away I had 45 minutes to make 11 ½ miles and the awful thought that it was the last train home and it was either a hell of a sprint or some 80 miles to pedal home by 7:00 a.m. A hell of a sprint it was. I passed horses, boys on bicycles with gearshifts & handlebars down, and even an occasional small car. Fortunately the train was 4 minutes late & I had a 2 minute wait.