But here I am, back again, and taking my time to gaze through the window of the old living-room at the same old stones opposite.
Today another family is living there, I see, whom I don't yet know. There are different panes in the windows now, different curtains . . .
Hey! What do I see at the window over there? Someone looking this way. A boy! . . . A small boy peering out from across the way at the front of my own house!
Y Llenor ( 9, 1930),
Storidu a 'Sgrifau ( Gwasg y Brython, 1933)
I was in England this summer. Not in London or Liverpool or Birmingham, but in the real England, the England that Mr R.T. Jenkins1 talks about, the country that 'makes the heart of many an Englishman beat faster', namely in one of 'the old, golden towns' of Herefordshire, a town that has not been spoiled and turned into a Broadway by publicity and Americans, but remains quietly off the beaten track, one of the gems of English civilization. Weobley is an ancient township. It used to return two members to the parliament of England. Today its three streets are a refuge for painters attracted there by the black-and-white houses with their thatched roofs. And there is a hotel there. Not only is this the oldest house in the village, but in itself it is the very embodiment of all that is genial and amiable in the life of England. Simple, pure food is served there, local meat, vegetables from the garden, fresh fruit and cream, and cider made from the Herefordshire apples. In the lounge is heard the gentle talk of the district's farmers, here is the fine courtesy of an English country-inn, the pleasant chatter of the woman of the house, the ready service of her daughter who ran in from the tennis-court to lay the table. We slept under beams that had been polished by the centuries.