DOI Page / Citation link:
https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.61635#0075
[ 7i ]
still the wind to fight. It blew in our faces with
never-relaxing vigour, rushing through the trees
and over the plain as if in haste to reach the sea.
To make matters worse, the road was bad. The
cavalry had ruined it, a stone-breaker said. We
were soon riding on the side-walk.—The few white-
capped, blue - skirted pedestrians we met went
obligingly into the road to let us pass.--
“ Pardon, ladies,” said we.
“ Of nothing,” said they.
“ The road is so bad,” we explained.
“You have reason. Au revoir” cried they.
—The road ran straight along the edge of the
upland. Below, a pretty river wound among reeds
and willows, overtopped by tall trees shivering in
the wind. But hard work gave us little chance
for pleasure in the landscape, until at Pont Remy
we stopped on the bridge to take breath.
We went back to the pedals with sad misgivings,
like people who know that the worst is still to
come. Just beyond, we left the Route Nationale
for a by-road and unmitigated misery. Here we
were led to believe there was no other road be-
tween Abbeville and Amiens. Amiens, “the very
city where my poor lady is to come,” we could not
miss. And yet Italian experience made us doubt
the advisability of turning off the highroad.
The
still the wind to fight. It blew in our faces with
never-relaxing vigour, rushing through the trees
and over the plain as if in haste to reach the sea.
To make matters worse, the road was bad. The
cavalry had ruined it, a stone-breaker said. We
were soon riding on the side-walk.—The few white-
capped, blue - skirted pedestrians we met went
obligingly into the road to let us pass.--
“ Pardon, ladies,” said we.
“ Of nothing,” said they.
“ The road is so bad,” we explained.
“You have reason. Au revoir” cried they.
—The road ran straight along the edge of the
upland. Below, a pretty river wound among reeds
and willows, overtopped by tall trees shivering in
the wind. But hard work gave us little chance
for pleasure in the landscape, until at Pont Remy
we stopped on the bridge to take breath.
We went back to the pedals with sad misgivings,
like people who know that the worst is still to
come. Just beyond, we left the Route Nationale
for a by-road and unmitigated misery. Here we
were led to believe there was no other road be-
tween Abbeville and Amiens. Amiens, “the very
city where my poor lady is to come,” we could not
miss. And yet Italian experience made us doubt
the advisability of turning off the highroad.
The