Peace, I remember, had her alimentary perplexities not much less renowned
than war. At any rate I can think of two.
The first was some years ago, in Yorkshire, on one of those sultry and
stifling days of August which in winter, or even in such a March as we have
been suffering, one can view as something more desirable than rubies, but
which in actual fact are depressing, enervating, and the mother of
moodiness and fatigue. We had left Chop Yat early in the morning after a
night of excessive heat in beds of excessive featheriness and were walking
towards Helmsley by way of Rievaulx, all unconcerned as to lunch by the
way, because the ordnance map marked with such cordial legibility an inn on
the road at a reasonable distance. Moreover, was not Yorkshire made up of
hospitable ridings, and had we not, on the previous day, found lunch in
this cottage and tea in that, with no trouble at all, to say nothing of the
terrific spread confronting us at Chop Yat? Why then carry anything?
But we soon began to regret the absence of sustenance, for this kind of
weather makes for extreme lassitude shot through with rattiness, and under
its influence nourishment dies in one with painful celerity.
The blessed word "inn" was however on the ordnance map, and since it was
the one-inch scale that cannot lie we braced ourselves, mended and remended
our tempers, and plodded on. The dales no doubt are gorgeous places, but
under this grey humid sky anyone who wanted it could have had my share of
Billsdale (as I believe it was). Scenery had become an outrage. There was
no joy, no beauty; nothing was worth living for but that inn. As we
laboured forward we cheered each other by word-pictures of its parlour, its
larder and its cellar. A pork-pie ("porch-peen" I fancy the Yorkshiremen
call it) would probably be there. Eggs, of course. A ham, surely. Bacon, no
doubt. Yellow butter, crusty new bread, and beer. Indeed, let the rest go,
so long as there was beer. But beer, of course, was beyond any question; an
inn without beer was unthinkable.
Thus the miles wore away until, footsore, sticky and faint, we came upon
the hostelry itself--only to find, instead of any grateful sign and the
promise of delight, the frigid words, "Friends' Meeting House," painted on
the board....
That was one experience, over which a veil may well be drawn. The other was
not so long ago, in Sussex, a little before the War. This time we had not
walked, but had done that much more hungrifying thing--we had been for
hours in a motor-car, exceedingly engaged on the task of looking at houses
to let. At last, utterly worn out, in the way that motoring can wear out
body, soul and nerves, and filled with a ravening desire to tear meat limb
from limb, we came to an inn of which our host had the highest opinion--so
high, indeed, that, empty though we were, he had forced the car at
full-speed past at least half-a-dozen admirable but less pretentious
houses, where I, in my small way, had more than once been nourished and
sustained.
When, however, at last we did arrive at his desired haven, late in the
afternoon, when dusk was beginning to fall and blur with her gentle hand
the sharp lines of hill and tree, we acknowledged his wisdom, for in the
window beside the door, where we creakingly but joyfully alighted, were
visible, although no longer distinctly, a vast ham as yet uncut and two
richly-browned cold fowls. "There," said he, with a pardonable triumph,
"didn't I tell you?" and so, our lips trembling with the anticipation of
nutriment, we entered, flung off our wraps, and prepared, on the evidence,
for such bliss as earth too rarely affords. But alas for hopes raised only
to be shattered, for the host had nothing to offer us but bread and cheese.
The ham and chickens were of _papier-mâché_.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Sentry._ '"OO GOES THERE?"
_Jock._ "TWA SCOTCHES, AN' AWFU' UNDER PROOF."]
* * * * *
"HOTEL. ---- Sitting Waiter required, good experience."--_Bournemouth
Daily Echo_.
The inclusion of the functions of a waiter among "sedentary occupations"
explains a good deal.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Ex-Proprietor of a Cokernut Stall_ (_who has just had his
helmet shot off_). "WHAT'LL YE 'AVE, FRITZ--NUTS OR A SEEGAR?"]
* * * * *