There is a great clearing out always by the first of September and then the place was enchanting—­bright, beautiful September days, one could still bathe, the sun was so strong; and the afternoons, with just a little chill in the air, were delightful for walking and driving.  There was a pretty Norman farm—­just over the plage—­at the top of the falaise where we went sometimes for tea.  They gave us very good tea, milk, and cider, and excellent bread and butter and cheese.  We sat out of doors in an apple orchard at little tables—­all the beasts of the establishment in the same field.  The chickens and sheep surrounded us, were evidently accustomed to being fed, but the horses, cows, and calves kept quite to the other end.  We saw the girls milking the cows which, of course, interested the children immensely.

We made some charming excursions in the auto—­went one Saturday to Caen—­such a pretty road through little smiling villages—­every house with a garden, or if too close together to allow that, there were pots of geraniums, the falling kind, in the windows, which made a red curtain dropping down over the walls.  We stopped at Lisieux—­a quaint old Norman town, with a fine cathedral and curious houses with gables and towers—­one street most picturesque, very narrow, with wooden houses, their projecting roofs coming so far over the street one could hardly see the sky in some places.  There were all kinds of balconies and cornices most elaborately carved—­the wood so dark one could scarcely distinguish the original figures and devices, but some of them were extraordinary, dragons, and enormous winged animals.  We did not linger very long as we were in our new auto—­a Martini hill-climber—­built in Switzerland and, of course (like all automobilists), were anxious to make as fast a run as possible between Villers and Caen.

The approach to Caen is not particularly interesting—­the country is flat, the road running through poplar-bordered fields—­one does not see it at all until one gets quite near, and then suddenly beautiful towers and steeples seem to rise out of the green meadows.  It was Saturday—­market day—­and the town was crowded—­every description of vehicle in the main street and before the hotel, two enormous red 60-horse-power Mercedes—­farmers’ gigs and donkey carts with cheeses and butter—­a couple generally inside—­the man with his blue smock and broad-brimmed hat, the woman with a high, clean, stiff-starched muslin cap, a knit shawl over her shoulders.  They were not in the least discomposed by the bustle and the automobiles, never thought of getting out of the way—­jogged comfortably on keeping to their side of the road.