Sunday 4th August 1935

Peaceful Sunday afternoon. I lounge in a deck chair in the Red Lion garden, and have not energy to write. Perhaps I’ll go to sleep…

After tea I proudly donned my black felt hat and strolled to Callow Hill. Delightful sylvan footpaths all the way. Alone, except for my pipe. Can’t describe the charm of that stroll. Seem to be losing the ability for descriptive prose about beauty. Still able to appreciate though. Perhaps as it should be.