Berkshire, 3 December 1947: Hollows among the downs were lost in mist, but up on the Ridgeway the air was crystal clear and very still
To-day, the last day for using one’s basic petrol ration, we drove in brilliant sunshine from Oxford to the Berkshire Downs. Where hedges with tall elm trees shut out the sun the night’s hoar-frost still lay on the ploughlands, but in open country the clods, caught by its rays, sparkled like jewels. A low bank of fog lay over the Vale of the White Horse and many of the hollows among the downs were lost in mist, but up on the Ridgeway the air was crystal clear and very still.
A thicket adjoining the Ridgeway at the place where we ran on to it was astir with the flutterings and callings of finches settling down to roost early, but out on the open downs scarcely a sound broke the stillness. Now and then a partridge would call and once or twice we caught the distant calls of larks flying low over the stubbles, but those were the only birds we heard, until three goldfinches flew over us uttering a faint twitter that grew softer and softer as they drew farther away from us, until we began to think it was only an imagined sound.
