I was at Auntie's on holiday when it happened. It was something I had always longed for; it was something that was inevitable, for it was my first visit to London. The day was fixed for November 5th which gave me a reminder of a history lesson—"How did the Gunpowder Plot influence the religious policy of James I?"

We were to have our breakfast on the train which was to arrive at Marylebone at 11-30 a.m. As some friends of mine had told me what sort of a meal this was, I was prepared for something on the cafeteria lines! However it over-reached my expectations and I thoroughly enjoyed it. We arrived on time at the station; I then had my first experience on the Underground—the ticket machine in which I put a shilling and received a ticket and the correct change, the long escalators, the electric trains with their sliding doors, the tunnels and many stations. We changed at Charing Cross Station to the line for Westminster, but I still had not seen anything of London. We were like rabbits in burrows and when we came up out of our hole the first thing I saw through a thinning London fog was Big Ben. I promptly corrected my watch, which I might add kept perfect time that day but has stopped ever since. It was here Uncle left us.

So this was London. I set foot on Westminster Bridge and we crossed to the other side and back, viewing the Houses of Parliament and the Embankment through the clearing fog. We walked past St. Margaret's, noted for its fashionable weddings, and I saw Westminster Abbey, not quite the same as on photographs, for it seemed to have a more dignified air about it. Then across Parliament Square and up Whitehall, past Government Offices and a side street which was insignificant except for its name—Downing Street. The Cenotaph was being prepared for the Armistice Day ceremony, and when we reached the Horse Guards I admired the mounted guards and the beautiful condition their horses were in. Quite soon a No. 11 bus came up, and we managed to get a front seat upstairs. We expected to see many interesting places being on this bus route, and Auntie booked to the "Bank."

There was Trafalgar Square and Nelson's Column, Admiralty Arch, the National Gallery, St. Martin's-in-the-Fields. We were in the Strand now, we passed the Aldwych, yes, there were the Law Courts, into Fleet Street the home of the Press, up Ludgate Hill with the sun glinting on the dome of St. Paul's Cathedral, we alighted at the "Bank" seeing the Bank of England, the Royal Exchange and the Mansion House.

We then travelled by Underground to Oxford Circus; from here we walked down Regent Street. I will never forget that walk, the huge shops and stores filled with goods, the people, the fashions and the traffic. The shop windows were elaborately set out with the most fashionable goods of the season. People were hurrying about their business wearing every conceivable fashion. Two dark, swarthy skinned Arabs brushed past me, and I am positive I saw more than one famous person. We came to Piccadilly Circus and as we were both ready for our lunch we entered the Chicken Inn Restaurant. Here I had a most appetising meal which included "curried chicken" appropriate to the name of the restaurant. We left the Chicken Inn and hailed one of the taxis for which London is famous; our destination was Buckingham Palace.

We drove up the Mall with St. James Park on the left-hand side and the stately homes of England on the other. We got out of the taxi at Buckingham Palace, "the heart of an Empire," and quite satisfied we walked up Constitution Hill. A mounted policeman trotted past us. As we were crossing Hyde Park Corner I heard a peculiar whistle, we reached an island and I turned round, the police on duty were holding the traffic up. Then through the central archway and across the road drove Queen Mary and the Earl of Athlone followed by the two Princesses, of whom we had an excellent view. In the following cars were the Duchess of Kent, the young Duke, his sister, and other guests who were attending a wedding at St. Margaret's. After seeing these members of the Royal Family we crossed the road and hailed a taxi. At that moment a fawn saloon car stopped by our side before proceeding through the Park. The occupants were Lord Louis and Lady Mountbatten who also attended the wedding. We walked along Bond Street where we entered a quaint cafe, "La Boheme," for a cup of tea and cakes which included chocolate eclairs. After tea we met Uncle in time to get to the station at 6 p.m.

Back at Auntie's I lay back and thought what an interesting day it had been for me. It perhaps would not have appealed to you but to me it was like a picture coming to life.

MARGARET DUXBURY.

I went to Stratford with a friend; our purpose was not to visit the "shrines for pilgrims" so reverently described in our guide book, but to go to the Memorial Theatre as often as possible and to explore the surrounding countryside. Nevertheless our curiosity prevailed and we ended up by visiting Shakespeare's Birthplace, Holy Trinity Church where he is buried, and Ann Hathaway's Cottage.

What impressed me most about the Birthplace was Shakespeare's chair, whose thick oak seat has to be renewed every three years because of the zeal (and weight) of the visitors who sit on it! Holy Trinity Church looked very lovely in the Spring sunlight, with the wide Avon fringed with willows and decorated with swans, flowing slowly by it. Inside we saw the entries of Shakespeare's birth and death in the register, and, disdaining the English translation, laboriously spelt out the original Latin! It was here that we saw our only genuine Shakespearean pilgrim. He was standing in front of the poet's grave with a rapt expression on his face. Suddenly he clutched my arm and pointed to the grave saying, "This is it! This is the place which famous people from all over the world come to see!" He looked very happy.

Ann Hathaway's Cottage had the friendly air of having been lived in, and its contents of having been used hard. I liked the old oak table with the reversible top, so that the family could eat off the unpolished side and then turn it over for show!

Three productions were being given at the Memorial Theatre in the first week of the season—"Romeo and Juliet," "Dr. Faustus," and "Measure for Measure." Determined to appreciate them to the full, we attended lectures on the plays by the experienced Shakespearean producer, Nugent Monck. They were held in "Mason Croft," the lovely old Tudor house in which Marie Corelli used to live, and which is now taken over by the British Council. The audiences were mixed—there was the inevitable 'arty' crowd, in hand-woven capes (locally manufactured), housewives who had dropped in in the middle of their shopping, visitors to the town, some members of the company from the Memorial Theatre, and university students with pencils poised ready to take notes. We tried to look as if we belonged to this last group and dutifully poised our pencils, but our holiday spirits prevailed and we could not look studious.

The critics did not give "Romeo and Juliet" favourable notices. However we disagreed, and thought it was a colourful and passionate production. Peter Brooke, its twenty-one year old producer, had followed Shaw's advice to concentrate on youth and fights. "Dr. Faustus" and "Measure for Measure" were productions from last year's season. The producer of the latter was American, and it was interesting to see how the pace and atmosphere of his production was different—it was especially noticeable in the broad comedy scenes.

From time to time we met members of the Company in the town. We saw Romeo leap over a wall, and so we instantly quoted "the orchard walls are high and hard to climb;" Benvolio walked down Church Street with a gramophone record under his arm "Music with her silver sound" was all we could manage for him; Mercutio wandered past us with his wife and small boy; and Tybalt came and listened to Nugent Monck on "Romeo and Juliet."

One sunny day we went out to Charlecote Park, the estate of the Lucy family, recently bought by the National Trust. Old Sir Thomas Lucy had acquired unlooked for fame by prosecuting Shakespeare for deer poaching, and subsequently was caricatured in Justice Shallow of "The Merry Wives of Windsor" and was the victim of a vituperous lampoon concocted by the Immortal Bard.

"A Parliament Member, a Justice of Peace,
At home a poor scarecrow, in London an asse,
If lowsie is Lucy, as some folks miscalle it,
Then Lucy is lowsie, whatever befall it.
He thinks himself great;
Yet an asse in his state,
We allow by his ears but with asses to mate;
If Lucy is lowsie, as some folks miscalle it,
Then sing lowsie Lucy, whatever befall it."

We were shown round the Manor by a most unconventional young guide, who began by apologising for inflicting himself on us! He was the ideal guide—knowledgeable but not annoyingly infallible, humorous but not facetious. The park was looking lovely as the beeches and elms were just coming into leaf, the deer were grazing in their shade, and black and white spotted lambs, descendants of sheep which a Lucy had brought back from Italy, were wobbling about.

I loved the Warwickshire countryside, Stratford and all its associations, but as I looked at the "shrines" and the numerous editions of Shakespeare, I could not help thinking it would be very funny if those people who still assert that Shakespeare never wrote the plays attributed to him happened to be right!

R.D.

In an austerity world such as we are facing to-day, a glimpse into Belgium is a preview of paradise. Here there is everything that seems to the tired Britisher to spell comfort, warmth and that well-fed feeling. Tales of this long-forgotten luxury having permeated this country, we decided, just in time, to see for ourselves.

If you travel on the Dover-Ostend route as we did, you rise from your London bed, if you are strong-minded enough, at the early hour of six, scramble through the rest of the packing, and hurtle downstairs to a hurried breakfast. The question then arises, how to get hold of a taxi to convey you and the mountains of baggage you have taken "just in case" to Victoria and the boat-train. Once in the train, that problem solved, you are at liberty to continue your interrupted night's rest or watch the hop-poles of Kent fly past. At Dover you immediately assume the character of a sheep, being herded into the Customs, through the Customs, out of the Customs, and on to the quay, where you are greeted by the sight of a very small, very white ship. These boats invariably remind one of the boats one sailed in the bath, compared with the expanse of water they propose to cover.

The first sight of the Belgian coast is not inspiring. I doubt whether any poet has yet considered it worth his while to commemorate it in any ode, as it is extremely flat and very drab. But the approach is enlivened by the sight of the white miniature skyscrapers of the office buildings, and the myriads of little brown-sailed boats which swarm round the ship as she steams slowly into Ostend.

From Ostend to Brussels. A train journey is always a good way of gaining an idea of a country and this is no exception. What strikes one most as the train passes field after field and pink farm after white one, is the flatness of the land and above all, the scarcity of roads. Whenever there is one to be seen, which is not often, it is either a main road or a farm track. In the really rural areas the women are out in the fields in long blue cotton dresses and wide straw hats, ploughing with oxen. Not a square inch of land is wasted, there are no hedges—ditches take their place and serve to irrigate the land, as well as divide off the fields in the sweltering summers. Belgium, as a country, and as far as food is concerned, is practically self-sufficent, growing everything except the full quantities of wheat required.

On arrival in Brussels the first shock awaits you. Most of the streets are cobbled—a profoundly uncomfortable state of affairs until you have acquired your "cobble-legs" so to speak. Having safely negotiated the square in front of the hotel, and remembered to look left first instead of right as all the traffic runs on the right, you can really say you have arrived. This square houses one of Brussels' many flower markets, and is a mass of colour from six in the morning till seven at night. But with the coming of evening, more colour springs into being—the lights of Brussels which stretch for mile upon mile along the boulevards. Continental life at night has to be seen to be believed. With a mild climate, and brilliant neon lights which stay on until the small hours of the morning when dawn is showing above the Palais de Justice, everybody crowds into the city when work is done. Diners eat at tables beneath the plane trees, cafes are open nearly all night, and many shops stay open till ten.

Eating over there is a constant struggle—a struggle to choose from the dishes set forth on the almost foot-square, closely written menu. Nothing is cooked until you order it, and then, it if is not done to your taste, you consign it back to the kitchens and receive a new supply. Cooking is excellent, the choice huge and prices more or less the same as in Britain, in most cases cheaper. The number of courses is tremendous, and it has often happened that we have sat down to lunch at one and only risen at four! Coupons are supposed to be given up for bread and cakes, but it is only too easy to get them without. In fact everyone in Belgium to-day is a nominal blackmarketeer—even the policemen's wives use the "Zwarte Markt."

Although Brussels is the capital, Antwerp is in many respects the more interesting city, due in part I suppose to its being a large port. The Scheldt is a great attraction to those in Antwerp for the first time, with its miles of docks, and tunnels by which it is possible to cross from one side to the other. The Cathedral too, draws its quota of sightseers and one could, until recently, climb the six hundred odd spiral steps to the top of the tower. Now one can only go as far as the clock, round about the four hundredth step, because there was a tragic spate of people throwing themselves over the parapet. High Mass is held at eleven and it is a wonderful experience to hear the choir, high in the gallery, swell the Cathedral with their chant.

Antwerp is a city of old streets tucked away between tall buildings where people live in a kind of human hive; of streets where at every corner you see the inevitable Madonna; of broad tree-lined boulevards; of trams with little trailers attached and queues which dissolve into crowds when a tram approaches; of beautiful old houses belonging at one time to Rubens and the other great Flemish masters; of delightful museums and a zoo which once housed human inmates (suspected collaborators) after the Germans left. Is there nothing then to mar this paradise? Yes, one thing—mosquitoes. These pests make life a misery if you happen to be one of those unfortunate people whom that blood-thirsty fraternity adore.

All too soon the white cliffs of Dover are looming over the horizon and we are back to sausage for breakfast, lunch and tea, tight belts, and work! Hard lines indeed!

PAMELA L. CLAYTON.

Paris, at the end of July and in early August, was unbearably hot. The highest temperatures for seventy-five years were registered, but in spite of this the mad dogs of Englishmen took to the midday sun and the sights of Paris. The latter, for the most part, are unscarred by war but we saw many buildings pitted with machine gun bullets when the citizens of Paris rose to root out the German snipers in the early days of the liberation.

Most of our time was spent in the Latin quarter and we made our temporary home in the annexe of the Faculté des Sciences of the University, where a member of the famous Curie family is still engaged in scientific research. When we visited the Sorbonne, we had the privilege of hearing a student read part of his thesis for his Doctorate before the jury. Compared with this ordeal, our French Oral examination seems very mild!

Most foodstuffs and clothes are not rationed by any points or coupon system but with, for example, meat at 8/4 a pound and eggs at 7½d. to 10d. each, there is an effective, although unjust rationing system in existence. In this country, on the other hand, everyone can purchase essential foods and clothes at reasonable prices. Perhaps this explains why we rarely saw a well nourished French child and why the average French person is not as well dressed as his English counterpart.

The long standing tradition of Parisian gaiety was dispelled by the careworn and harassed faces and general appearance of the ordinary man and woman travelling on the Metro. This general attitude of weariness and indifference is doubtless brought about by a perpetual struggle to obtain the sheer necessities of life.

E.G.

While we were in Paris this Summer we led a kind of double life— not so alarming as it sounds! Staying in the Cité Universitaire, composed of residential colleges for nineteen different countries, we took part in its social life and met students from Belgium, Holland, Denmark, Switzerland, Italy, Portugal, Africa, Egypt, Greece, Rumania and Persia, but living in Paris we were also taking part in the life of a larger city. Both were interesting, but naturally we gained more enjoyment from our second life than from our first.

On arriving in Paris and finding great heat and brilliant sunshine we decided to buy hats. Four of us bought big, shady, picture hats, one a Chinese coolie hat, and one an odd Mexican hair (or perhaps it was grass) hat. The combination of our English accents and large hats (hardly anyone else in Paris was wearing a hat) made us rather conspicuous when we went out en masse! We went prepared to be enchanted by Paris and we were. Nevertheless Paris was not looking her best—'fermeture annuelle' notices were to be seen everywhere on the theatre placards, on the closed shutters of 'blanchisseries,' and on the doors of the little nightclubs up in Montmartre; the Parisian 'haut monde' was adorning the beaches of the côte d'azur instead of the boulevards of Paris; and most things wore a look of almost autumnal brown-ness in the midst of the exceptional summer heat. But there were charming oases of cool and green like the Tuileries and Jardins du Luxembourg, where fountains plashed continuously and hoses sprayed the lawns and flowers. These, like the long, gracious boulevards, were a source of wonder and admiration to us, for their ordered brilliance and well-kept appearance contrasted strangely with the chaotic political situation. The French may bungle their rationing, and mangle their politics, we thought, but they do know how to keep a city in perfect order. The same contrast between order and chaos, peace and war, was apparent everywhere. Rounding a street corner one would suddenly be confronted by a little plaque on a wall with a simple inscription—"Mort pour la France, mai, 1945"—a name and a few flowers—and one was forcibly reminded that German soldiers had trod those streets not long ago. What is more, ordinary law-abiding French people with whom we talked, all spoke calmly of a revolution within a year as a certainty. Life in France is permanently precarious, it seems.

As we had a whole month over which to spread our sight-seeing we could take it in small doses and enjoy it, despite the heat. Versailles, with all its many fountains playing, shot through with the gold, rose and orange of successive showers of rockets, was the most brilliant of the sights we saw. But perhaps the chandelier at the Opéra was as brilliant in its more concentrated way. We very nearly missed seeing it altogether, as our seats were in the 'cinquième loges' which are right up under the eaves, so to speak. We spent the intervals looking down the brilliantly lit well of the foyer where the National Guard was on duty, watching the audience and eating 'esquimaux' (chocolate lollipop ice creams). Afterwards we sat in a cafe near the Opéra, sipping citronnades out of tall, slim, glasses, and shovelling in ice from an enchanting little silver bucket. Amongst the stream of monstrous American cars and smart little 'fiacres' that went by we were thrilled to see the celebrated woman fiacre driver, a retired fashion model, who drives for pleasure.

When we visited the church, Sacré Coeur de Montmartre, a special mass was being celebrated for men killed in the war. The emotional atmosphere of the inner part of the church was heightened by the intoning voice of the priest and the pungent smell of the incense; but outside this inner part walked sightseers, taking no notice of the service—children were yelling, Americans were taking snaps, and people (many of them French) were talking and laughing. It was a contrast that could never be found in England—perhaps it was symbolic of two contradictory sides of the French character—its ready belief and faith, and its detached, critical and anticlerica tendency.

The part of Paris that we all liked best was the Ile de la Cité, and the banks of the Seine bordering it—we found this region inexhaustibly interesting. We loved wandering round the flower market near Notre Dame looking at huge exotic blooms whose names we did not know; we loved browsing along the 'bouquinistes;' buying dozens of books in our imaginations and one or two in reality; we loved watching the life on and beside the Seine and her bridges—the barges, the little yachts, the patient fishermen, the chattering children (who appeared slightly precocious to us because their French was so fluent!), and the excitable gendarmes.

THE THREE WHO WENT.

Getting up at 5 a.m. on Monday morning was well worth while when the next two hours were to be spent in sailing up the beautiful Oslo Fjord with its gentle wooded slopes. The rest of the day spent in Oslo included a tour of the city's most notable buildings and the Folk museum. In the evening, standing on the hill by the Palace we saw the stately Karl Johans Gate brightly lit and in the distance quite a surprise—neon lighting.

The following day a seven hour train journey brought our party of five to Finse, a small mountain village 4000 feet above sea level. The journey was very interesting, taking us first by wooded hills where dark green pines and spruces were intermingled with silver birches, then through the cultivated valley of Hallingdal and finally to a region of much sparser vegetation as we reached a greater height. Here our interest became centred on the distant whiteness of mountains and glaciers.

Finse's main communication with the outside world is by railway, there being only a bridle path running from the village. Very few trains pass each day and in the meantime one sees the local method of transport; a tricycle devised to run on the railway lines. Whilst staying in Finse we walked to the nearest glacier and were surprised at the great drop in temperature as we approached it. The sun was sparkling on the rough ice making it look very beautiful although the surroundings were of very bare terrain.

From Finse we travelled on the Oslo-Bergen railway to Voss, the nearest point to Granvin, where we were to spend the next nine days. Leaving the high mountains we ran into the fjord country when the afternoon sunlight was enhancing the brilliant green of the steep hillsides. Granvin was a focal point for various excursions by steamer, car, and on foot to many other places on the Hardanflt fjord. We also enjoyed swimming in its clear waters.

During our stay all the Norwegians we met were most kind, and always ready to help us. Many of them spoke English, but we were able to make use of the Norwegian we had been learning especially in the shops where we were able to make a few purchases, although clothes and food are rationed just as in England.

Our last day in Norway was spent in Bergen, a picturesque town with a busy harbour. One of my chief memores of Bergen is of its colours, the red and white of the wooden houses on the hillsides making sharp contrasts with the dark green of he pine trees and the brilliant blue of the harbour waters. As we said "Adieu" to the lights of Bergen from the "Astrea" in the late evening we were grateful for the many pleasant memories which we were able to take with us.

E.S.

The long train in which we had travelled for twelve hours from Calais drew to a standstill in Basle station. We had arrived in Switzerland at last! We wondered whether it would be as lovely as we had hoped and were not disappointed. The station was busy, even at eight o'clock in the morning. Porters in peaked caps and blue smocks were handling dozens of large cases, there were queues at the Customs Office waiting to have passports stamped, and hot and dirty travellers refreshing themselves in the smart Bahnhof Hotel with coffee, crisp rolls and butter.

In an hour we were off again on the last lap of our journey, to Lucerne. Overlooking the railway were blocks of flats, some pink, some pale green, all with balconies and striped sunblinds, none of them dirty for an electric engine leaves no smuts behind it. Just outside Basle we noticed familiar names on the factories—"Persil," "Aga" (cookers) and "Ford". Much new building was in progress but we soon passed the factories and saw the real Swiss countryside.

The lower hillslopes were planted with fruit trees, beneath which the grass was just being cut by hand so as to be ready for winter use after drying on wooden frames. On the steeper parts were dense forests of conifers.

The chalets always attracted us. Built of wood, some were quite simple, others very ornate, with beautiful carving below the wide eaves, over doors and round balconies. All had shutters, useful both in summer and winter for protection against hot sun or snow. Many had great piles of wood stacked beneath the steps leading to the door, for the ground floor of the chalets was often used as a storage place.

Later, when we went to Lugano, only a mile or so from the Italian frontier, the houses were different. These in the warm South were not made of wood and as many were light yellow, white or pink they looked dazzling in the strong sunlight. Some were decorated with friezes round the walls. Even the power station in the upper Ticino valley had its gay pattern of green and red on a buff surface—how different from Kirkstall!

"Keep right" is the rule of the road in Switzerland and we had one or two narrow escapes when we automatically looked for traffic from the left. The towns were busy with single-deck trams and buses, very modern cars from America, France and Italy, and not-so-modern ones with the G.B. sign. Bicycles passed us in dozens, each with its registration number, and we also saw them hung up on end in their own parking areas. The police in Lucerne looked quite like the English ones, but each canton or district has its own rules and uniforms and those in the South looked more like soldiers and wore grey.

The soldiers themselves wear a blue-grey uniform. We saw a large number as we went up to Andermatt in the mountains. They were coming down the road with their horse-drawn baggage carts, looking very hot with their packs both back and front, for the sun is strong even at 6,000 feet. Military service for so many months each year, according to age, is compulsory for all over eighteen. But how fortunate the Swiss were, we thought, to have been able to remain at peace while Europe has been ravaged in two world wars.

It was with great regret and a firm determination to return that we left Switzerland, breathing a sigh of relief as the Customs Officials left the train without examining any luggage and we settled down for the long journey home.

P.J.

Taking a holiday abroad in this post-war period is very different from taking a holiday on the continent before 1939. Now there are money restrictions and in Switzerland a certain percentage of one's money must be taken in vouchers, which can only be used for travel or meals. This limits the amount of money one can spend in the shops, where one is tempted to buy nylons, shoes, silk dresses, watches, the most delicious cakes and chocolates, and the most delicately carved toys and ornaments. In spite of a certain amount of food rationing the meals everywhere were most appetising—the Swiss people certainly know how to cook and to cater for their visitors. As he goes from a country where there are so many shortages, I think the first things to impress the English visitor are the well lit, well stocked shops and the really delicious food.

Then one turns to the mountains and lakes. I spent a week in Interlaken and had the opportunity of going up the Jungfrau in the most favourable weather. The Swiss are skilled engineers and they can construct railways up the steepest of slopes and even through the heart of some of their highest mountains. The Jungfrau railway is tunnelled through the heart of the Eiger and Monch mountains (13,000 feet). The journey from Interlaken to the top of the Jungfrau takes about 3½ hours. The first two hours are spent in an open railway carriage, which takes one from the steep sided Lauterbrunnen Valley to the Alpine meadows at a height of over 6,000 feet. Then one has to change to a closed, heated coach for the remainder of the journey. This section is through the mountains and after one hour's steady rumbling through a tunnel, one emerges at a height of 11,340 feet, on the snows which feed the Aletsch glacier. For the amusement of visitors, an ice palace has been excavated in the ice of the glacier. In the ice palace are models of rooms, a wine cellar, a motor car, and a skating rink, carved in the solid ice. This expedition was a really interesting experience.

Another place which I visited from Interlaken and which impressed me greatly was the gorge of the River Aar. The gorge is about 1¼ miles long, appears to be about 20 yards wide and its walls rise up sheer for hundreds of feet. A wooden platform anchored to the side of the gorge makes it possible for pedestrians to walk through its entire length. Under one's feet, the River Aar, fed by glacier water and churned to a milky white foam, races through this narrow defile. One sees this same river later flowing more placidly through Berne, to make its way eventually into the Rhine.

I spent my second week in Switzerland in Lugano, which is in the Southern part of the country. On the journey there, as soon as one emerges from the St. Gotthard tunnel one immediately detects differences in the life of the people. The houses are no longer the pretty Swiss chalets with their window boxes of geraniums, but very Italian looking villas built of local stone; the churches are no longer the quaint wooden structures with their tall spires built in the centre of the villages, but are substantial stone buildings with detached campanile towers, built in a prominent position on a hilltop or valley side; the advertisements and place names are no longer in German but Italian, and everywhere one sees the grape vines, either trailing over stone and wooden pillars in the fields or over the front door of the peasants' homes. In this Italian speaking part of Switzerland it was very difficult for us to realise that we were still in the same country as that of the German speaking Swiss we had left behind when we came through the St. Gotthard tunnel.

Overlooking Lake Lugano are many prominent hills, and by paying a few francs and sitting for about half an hour in a funicular railway coach, one can be transported in comfort up to a height of 5,000 or 6,000 feet. In clear weather from any of these peaks it is possible to see a considerable distance over the Plain of Lombardy to the South, or the Alps of the Bernese Oberland and Monte Rosa to the North and West. Lugano is very near the Italian frontier and so we went into Italy to visit Lake Como.

One can only look forward now to the time when the ban on foreign travel will be lifted and it will be possible to visit these interesting places again.

E. L. S. HALL.