Our route for the day was over the old coach road leading from London to Holyhead, one of the most perfect in the Kingdom, having been in existence from the time of the Romans.  In fact, no stretch of road of equal distance in our entire tour was superior to the one we followed from St. Albans to Coventry.  It was nearly level, free from sharp turns, with perfect surface, and cared for with neatness such as we would find only in a millionaire’s private grounds in the United States.  Everywhere men were at work repairing any slight depression, trimming the lawnlike grasses on each side to an exact line with the edges of the stone surface, and even sweeping the road in many places to rid it of dust and dirt.  Here and there it ran for a considerable distance through beautiful avenues of fine elms and yews; the hawthorne hedges which bordered it almost everywhere were trimmed with careful exactness; and yet amid all this precision there bloomed in many places the sweet English wild flowers—­forget-me-nots, violets, wild hyacinths and bluebells.  The country itself was rather flat and the villages generally uninteresting.  The road was literally bordered with wayside inns, or, more properly, ale houses, for they apparently did little but sell liquor, and their names were odd and fantastic in a high degree.  We noted a few of them.  The “Stump and Pie,” the “Hare and Hounds,” the “Plume of Feathers,” the “Blue Ball Inn,” the “Horse and Wagon,” the “Horse and Jockey,” the “Dog and Parson,” the “Dusty Miller,” the “Angel Hotel” the “Dun Cow Inn,” the “Green Man,” the “Adam and Eve,” and the “Coach and Horses,” are a few actual examples of the fearful and wonderful nomenclature of the roadside houses.  Hardly less numerous than these inns were the motor-supply depots along this road.  There is probably no other road in England over which there is greater motor travel, and supplies of all kinds are to be had every mile or two.  The careless motorist would not have far to walk should he neglect to keep up his supply of petrol—­or motor spirit, as they call it everywhere in Britain.

Long before we reached Coventry, we saw the famous “three spires” outlined against a rather threatening cloud, and just as we entered the crooked streets of the old town, the rain began to fall heavily.  The King’s Head Hotel was comfortable and up-to-date, and the large room given us, with its fire burning brightly in the open grate, was acceptable indeed after the drive in the face of a sharp wind, which had chilled us through.  And, by the way, there is little danger of being supplied with too many clothes and wraps when motoring in Britain.  There were very few days during our entire summer’s tour when one could dispense with cloaks and overcoats.