I have just crept with trepidation into a great white bed in the house of a Belgian gentleman. Another soldier and I spent the evening with M., Madame and Mademoiselle, partaking of an excellent supper of tender steak, vegetables, beer and tart. Chatted over books of views, maps and things (Madame speaking a little English), drank a bottle of good wine carefully lifted from the cellar, and in a word, been “bon vivants”. Perhaps they mistook us for officers. My companion, determined to pass one comfortable night, had knocked on the door and asked for a bed, with this result.
The trek today was miserably cold, up the valley of the Vesle through scenery in places extremely picturesque, the river plunging through a rocky gorge with quaint villages clinging to its sides; and ruined castles perched on promontories of rock. In one place a beautiful chateau stood upon the opposite bank with a stone bridge and bridgehouse all to itself.
Now for white sheets next to the skin – “home au nature”. We had stacked all our lousy clothes in a far corner of the room, and rinsed ourselves out of the wash basin.