At vacancy with Nature,
Acceptive and at ease,
Distilling the present hour
Whatever, wherever it is,
And over the past, oblivion.
When I tired of my solitude there was my car, ready at a moment's notice to whisk me back to the haunts of man. "Solitude hath its charms," but, to me, only when I know I can get away from it after having had my fill. One travels to escape for a while from man and town, from streets and houses, and then in turn one longs to get back again to despised humanity and neighbourship—at least I do, being no moody philosopher but a lover of my kind.
Leaving my peaceful nook, after further lonely wandering, I struck upon a decent though hilly road, and eventually came to a long, steep descent, at the foot of which I found myself in the truly old-world village of Stanway, where is another fine specimen of a tithe-barn. An apology perhaps is needed for using the term "old-world" so often, but I came during the journey to so many quaint and ancient places that no other word will so well, tersely, and truthfully describe, so I feel bound to use it occasionally, even frequently, though not, I trust, without good cause.
At the foot of the descent, facing me, stood a notable gate-house giving access to a time-greyed and noble mansion built in the Jacobean days; the former looks like the work of Inigo Jones. I was tempted to photograph this old gate-house, and any photograph here reproduced will serve to show what manner of building it is, for a picture of any kind appeals direct to the eye, thus conveying a better impression of a place than pages of printed description could: and be it said in favour of a photograph over a drawing that there is no romance about it, it simply records what is before the camera, whilst most artists are prone to treat their subjects with more or less poetic licence, so that one can never be quite sure how much of their work is faithful to fact or how much is fanciful.
GATEHOUSE, STANWAY.
Then, as the west was growing golden and the shadows lengthening, my thoughts turned to an inn for the night. It seems to me that an inn of the good old-fashioned sort, friendly, unpretentious, clean, and comfortable, deserves a warm corner in the heart of the wayfarer—for how would he fare without one? Whenever I come upon such an inn I make a note of it so as to keep it in memory, besides marking its site on my map for easy reference on the road. Many a time, and many a mile, have I gone out of my way, and gladly, to revisit such desirable quarters, sure, from past experience, of a welcome, civility, and a moderate reckoning, three qualities I mostly prize in the order given. Healthily hungry, agreeably tired after a long day's journey in the open air, how delightful it is to arrive at a good inn when the day is done—that is one of the joys of travel, and not the least of its joys. Suddenly I remembered that at the foot of the Cotswolds, and not very far away, was an ancient, many-gabled, Jacobean and storied hostelry of mullioned windows and panelled chambers where erst I had taken "mine ease"; thither would I go again, so I sped on my way, rejoicing, to the ancient "Whyte Harte" at Broadway, one of my ports of call when cruising on the road, and there I harboured for the night.