The cyclist arrives in the evening at his inn, tired, dusty, and disagreeably damp as to underclothing. He has now no other wish except to dine and go to bed. Morning sees him in the saddle again, whirring ever onwards to the distant goal.
He is doing a record. Let him. For him the birds sing not in woodland or copse; for him no wild flowers spring; he pauses not to listen to hum of bee or murmur of brooklet, nor to admire the beauties of heathy hills, purple with the glorious heather, or bosky dells, green with feathery larch or silvery birch; nor does he see the rolling cloudscapes, with their rifts of blue between. On—on—on—his way is ever on.
But gipsy-folks, like myself, jogging along at a quiet six-or-seven-miles-an-hour pace, observe and note everything. And it is surprising what trifles amuse us.
Although I constantly took notes from the coupé, or from my cycle saddle, and now and then made rough sketches, I can in these pages only give samples from these notes.
A volume could be written on public-house or inn signs, for example.
Another on strange names.
A third on trees.
A fourth on water—lakes, brooklets, rivers, cataracts, and mill-streams.
A fifth upon faces.
And so on, ad libitum.