Fine. Warm S.W. wind. Went home to lunch. Mother not very well, rather mopey. Joy told me last night old Mrs. Fletcher, the policeman’s mother, walks ever week from Stoke-by-Nayland to Lawford and then back the next week, at the age of 75. I wish my Mother was as hale and hearty as this.
Went down the North tonight, to identify an old photograph which I recently found. I went along by Mercer’s farm, along the footpath by the brickworks, where we had such wonderful finds ten or 12 years ago. All is deserted now, covered with bushes and brambles, and old Woods dead. This was one of the last little brick-fields in this neighbourhood. Then I went across the railway, along the track to
Turner Road. It is many years since I was across there. It is very desolate and lonely, yet so near the town. There is a little red brick cottage along there, which has a wonderful view right across the valley. I should like to live there in peacetime.
Met an old policeman in
Turner Road, and showed him the photo, which he at once identified as showing Mile End Hill, about 40 years ago. I was quite puzzled by it, as the scene had changed so much.
Mill Road, where new telephone poles for the aerodrome are being put up. Cut through Flood Lane, now made up with concrete. This is not of course a public road, but nobody stopped me, as there were plenty of workmen cycling away, and I looked very much like one of them. The Americans have arrived, and there was a sentry halfway along the lane, a little dark man in working uniform with the German-like steel helmet.
This evening writing. Had a note from Poulter today, to say that Wire’s Morant has not been sent to
. I suppose it must be in the Castle. London