17th December (1918)

(Name of place unknown)

Just going to get into a real bed in the house of some hospitable Walloons.  Spent the whole evening chattering with them and their friends in execrable French, and think we have all enjoyed it.  We have reached a small town in the Meuse valley, not far from Liege.  These people insisted upon my shaving in their front room, after which operation I turned and found a basin of water, on a stool in the middle of the floor, to wash in.

They gave me coffee and bread and butter, and I replied with a small present of tobacco and a tin of “viande”.  The husband displayed samples, very fine ones, of his art as a glass cutter.  They evinced great interest in my clothes.

White and grey stone buildings stood out against deep blue and purple distances.  Green swards run down to the rolling river.  Now for the bed.

One thought on “17th December (1918)”

  1. Hi John

    Lincoln innately responds to colours, forms, and all artistic stimulants, doesn’t he? Even amid the stresses and awfulness of war? I’ll miss him when his diary entries finish.

    Thank you once again.

    I’ll arrange that get-together in the new year. I’ve picked up an eye infection and am weeping all over the place, so no one would want to be with me before then!

    Good wishes to you and yours for Christmas and 2019.



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