The bus whisks you away (of course the driver is friendly and wouldn't really let you pay to go somewhere you didn't want to, but perhaps he misunderstands your Urdu-accented English)—the bus whisks you away up Broad Street. You have plumped into a seat at the front, where you have a wide view of the road whirling at you. Out along a sort of extension of the town, past a sign that says "DEVON" (you're in another county already!), through a village called Uplyme, and up a dark tunnel of trees that climbs a northward valley; at whose head, the road emerges onto that humming A 35 highway that brought you from London. But now you're at a point farther west; and the bus turns left, and ahead to the west the prospect opens broadly out: the distant view is of smooth green slopes, the farther side of a straight trench-like valley that runs by. This is the vale of the River Axe.

(An impressive line of raincloud is marching from the west, but not to worry, this is England in May, it will soon pass over.

(Or, it's a December morning, and the whole slope you are on is in shadow, the whole slope in the distance is in sun: because the sun is only ten degrees high behind you.)

PICTURE: MarketTodayDec]

The four-lane highway pours toward the valley, but not far down the slope the bus turns off to the right. (A handwritten sign, market today, is planted at the corner.)

This older but also busy road (the highway you just left is a modern bypass) descends more windingly and enters the fringe of a town. The street continues to descend until suddenly it rounds a curve to the left and brings you into the midst of a lively scene. The bus stops beside it like a ship at a quay and, after a five-mile ride, you step out—