Pebbles On The Shore

The invitation reaches me in a tiny village on a spur of a range of beech clad hills whither I have fled for a breathing space from the nightmare of the war and the menacing gloom of the London streets at night. Here the darkness has no terrors. In the wide arch of the sky our lamps are lit nightly as the sun sinks down far over the great plain that stretches at our feet. None of the palpitations of Fleet Street disturb us and the rumours of the war come to us like far-off echoes from another world. The only sensation of our day is when just after darkness has fallen the sound of a whistle in the tiny street of thatched cottages announces that the postman has called to collect letters.