August is said by epicures in the appreciation of landscape
to be the dullest month in the cycle of the English seasons. I have never found any month or week or day in England dull or without novelty, and I could prolong indefinitely this short period when the northern summer seems to take on something of the everlasting green of the tropics. In any case the first week of August, 1944, is to be remembered for the immense and late-ripening harvest. I have not seen the great cornfields of East Anglia, but the sight of the country through which the Great Western Railway passes between Radley and Pangbourne more than repays the discomfort of our overfull trains. And, as for the discomfort, the wise traveller studies his timetable, and often finds the slowest train to be the quickest and certainly the least tiresome method of reaching any place within 150 miles of London.
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