More than a month ago, when I was leaving London for a holiday,
a friend walked into my flat in Battersea and found me surrounded
with half-packed luggage.
"You seem to be off on your travels," he said. "Where are you going?"
With a strap between my teeth I replied, "To Battersea."
"The wit of your remark," he said, "wholly escapes me."
"I am going to Battersea," I repeated, "to Battersea vi Paris, Belfort,
Heidelberg, and Frankfort. My remark contained no wit. It contained
simply the truth. I am going to wander over the whole world until once
more I find Battersea. Somewhere in the seas of sunset or of sunrise,
somewhere in the ultimate archipelago of the earth, there is one little
island which I wish to find: an island with low green hills and great
white cliffs. Travellers t
