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Updated: May 12, 2025
It was a relief to rise and fall into groups as we strolled down the terrace to coffee. I manoeuvred Elodie and Bakkus to the front leaving Auriol and Lackaday to follow. I sought a table at the far end, for coffee; but when I turned round, I discovered that the pair had descended by the mid-way flight of three or four steps to the grass-plotted and fountained terrace below. We sat down.
I had seen Santa Maria della Pieve and its campanile of quaint colonnades, the stately, dusky cathedral grass-plotted and residenced about almost after the fashion of an English "close" and John of Pisa's elaborate marble shrine; I had seen the museum and its Etruscan vases and majolica platters.
Except that the roadside ditches were littered with beer bottles and scraps of paper, and the road itself rutted by cannon wheels, we saw little enough after leaving Leefdael to suggest that an army had come this way until we were in the outskirts of Brussels. In a tree-edged, grass-plotted boulevard at the edge of the Bois, toward Tervueren, cavalry had halted.
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