-- Oh hell , said Peter Jack , as he dumped his rucksack near the drinking fountain on the village green.

-- Not a bloody native in sight .

Not that he expected that there should be . Ever since his Canadian friend had pointed to the map and noted the quiet isolation of the village , in his transAtlantic fashion he had developed a plan to * get out into the countryside * The Canadian had waxed enthusiastic at the thought of a time spent in truly rural England , and had persuaded Peter to join him in an excursion into the wilds of the shire.

Then of course , as soon as preparations were completed , a message had come demanding his friend's return to Canada. It was an urgent family request , and not to be ignored so that left Peter with the choice that he should also abandon the project or proceed on his own. Being somewhat tired of spending time in cities that looked like every other city , Peter plumped for the trip outwards from urban civilisation.

Hitching down the main drag , he had himself dropped off at what he thought should be the nearest point to the village . He realised now just how mistaken he had been .

Striking down the bye road he had chosen as the daylight steadily faded , he thought to take a short cut , over a stile , across a field. By the time he had reached the other side of the field the light had gone enough to allow him to mistake a track through a coppice as one leading in the direction he wished to go.

That was the end of any hope of finding the village for something like six hours . He must have lost the track and walked in circles until finally he gave up , sat with his back to a tree , and waited for the first light of dawn.

Of course , as soon as he could see well enough he was able to climb stiffly up a small knoll , and there was the village spread out before him.

Cursing philosophically , he strode down the road and waited for the first signs of life to appear.