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Paperback
First published January 1, 1954
Like all the shoemakers he loved the river. He loved the valley and the open country that was an escape from the low shabby defiles of the town. He felt pride in it because he had been born and bred there and because he knew every pike-hole and every place where bream and roach would be feeding and every spinney and bush and bank where wild-duck and snipe and kingfisher would breed. He wanted her to share all this. Already the full surge of summer was rising in the meadow grass, thick-scented, and on the crowns of may-blossom and wild-rose along the big sprawling hedgerows where later herds of returning cattle would pant fly-blown in the August shade. (Penguin, 1986, pp.38-9).This is classic Bates. This is what his best writing paints. You dwell in Heaven for a brief while. We all remember such summer glory, warm secrets nestled within us, bursting forth each year, part of the hope and peace of life. And I only find it in transitory whispers in other writers, like McEwan, occasionally (On Chesil Beach [2017]), with the exception of Laurie Lee's Cider With Rosie (1959), who must have owed some debt to H.E. Bates, I would have thought.