The next day (Aug. 31) was a joyous ride. We went up and down hills to a
calm, lazy little village, Haute Fontaine. There we took a wrong turning
and found ourselves in a blackberry lane. It was the hottest,
pleasantest of days, and forgetting all about the more serious
things--we could not even hear the guns--we filled up with the softest,
ripest of fruit. Three of us rode together, N'Soon, Grimers, and myself.
I don't know how we found our way. We just wandered on through sleepy,
cobbled villages, along the top of ridges with great misty views and by
quiet streams. Just beyond a village stuck on to the side of a hill, we
came to a river, and through the willows we saw a little church. It was
just like the Happy Valley that's over the fields from Burford.

We all sang anything we could remember as we rattled along. The bits of
columns that we passed did not damp us, for they consisted only of
transport, and transport can never be tragic--even in a retreat. The
most it can do is to depress you with a sense of unceasing monotonous
effort.

About three o'clock we came to a few houses--Béthancourt. There was an
omelette, coffee, and pears for us at the inn. The people were
frightened.

Why are the English retreating? Are they defeated?

No, it is only a strategical movement.

Will the dirty Germans pass by here? We had better pack up
our traps and fly.