Up early. Office at 9.10. No big raid on the Continent last night, but another attack on the S. coast, apparently on
Big crowds at the sale-yards and all over the town. The public house yards were full of traps, floats, and ponies, and the blacksmith’s near the market was full. As I came out into
Princes St, I saw
an enormous crowd by the Marsh Tavern, and everybody on the other side of the
street stopping to stare. Suddenly I saw
what they were looking at – a cob, in a rough old ralli-car, with dirty
harness, a “Tremendous cob”, his head up, ears pricked, mane-flapping, his
great legs rising and falling like piston-rods, sparks flying from his hooves,
being driven by a boy of about 16, sailing down the street. And the crowd stopped to stare at him, the
poetry of motion, timeless, ageless, the youthful “whip” sitting back as if he
were Bertram Mills himself. It was a
Began to rain a little, so I went up to the Museum and spoke to Maynard. A clergyman was there, talking about the Shrine of Our Lady of Ipswich, of which I had never heard before, but which apparently at one time rivalled Walsingham. How much more material there is at Ipswich as compared with
The Museum struck me as being rather sad, the cases were much too crowded. Maynard has been there a long time now and is getting very old. He told me that they were having a considerable number of books from the late Reid-Moir’s library, including many rare palaeontological monographs. Apparently the old man had been very badly off for some years, and had been paid a pension by the
for the last 5 or
6 years, in return for which he carried out research work on a number of sites,
the result to be for the benefit of the Museum.
This seems to show quite a high standard of intelligence on the part of
the Museum Committee. Ipswich
Back to the Market, and saw the cattle which Frank Warren had bought for the Committee. Curious to note how farmers at sales always seem to delight in standing right in the way of cattle, causing them to break and bolt in every direction.
About 4.30 began to feel rather queer, and although had had no food since breakfast, did not feel inclined to risk anything. Caught the bus back to
Colchester, first having to wait in a hot, stinking
garage for half an hour. The journey was
agony, even on the top deck. Every seat
was full, and the atmosphere foul. Only
two windows would open, and those merely cracks. The seats were excruciatingly uncomfortable
and the vibration intolerable. The head
officials of this abominable Eastern Counties Company should be condemned to
ride in their filthy buses day and night for a week.
Spent the journey mentally marking off each mile as we traversed it, and sprang out as soon as I could at
East Street. Frightful waves of nausea flowed over me, and
I was suddenly and disgustingly sick in the gutter outside the “Welcome Sailor”
public house, a horrid and degrading sight.
The wind and rain were getting worse, and I cycled back to Boxted thankful for the promise of a quiet night.