Doing England with a Giraffe [antikvár]

1 The Crossing and After Early October England does not begin at the white cliffs of Dover, or even on the steamer at Calais, The latter was in any case French and surprised me with the worst French menu of my life — on the assumption, I suppose, that sooner rather than later it would all return from me to you — you in this case being the fish. The sea was really stormy. 'Un peu inquiete,' said the French sailor, picking up my suitcases for the customs at Folkestone. 'Rather rough,' said the Immigration Officer, unconcernedly blotting up from his writing-desk the remnants left by the still queasy Greek granny before me. I suppose you might say England began with him, but for me it had begun even earlier than all of these, on the Paris-Calais train. There were six of us in the compartment : myself, an American couple and three young Englishmen. I took out my notes ; I would be able to work at them in peace on my journey. My travelling companions would be sure not to talk - the American couple were too busy with each other, and the Englishmen of course would be reserved, reticent, and reluctant to enter into conversation with strangers. This was the first misconception to go. Within twenty minutes the Englishmen had got me talking, asked me where I came from, and why I was going to England. 'So you edit an English-language periodical 'Yes.' 'In Budapest.?' 'Yes.' 'Do they make you do it