I + 

The greatest adventures in the lives of men will sometimes be embarked on very simply, and that was how Gian-Luca set out on his journey⁠—taking no heed for the morrow. To please Maddalena he must carry a suitcase in which she had managed to pack some warm flannels, and his raincoat she had strapped to the side of the suitcase, adding thereby to its bulk. For the rest he would take nothing but what he stood up in, and this for a very good reason; he intended to tramp to his destination, wherever that might ultimately be. A great longing for freedom of movement possessed him; he wanted to be quite untrammeled; he would not be restricted by so much as a map, far less by timetables and trains. He felt blessedly vague regarding his plans, though he meant to reach Staines by the evening; after that his road should be left to fate. + 

“Some place must be waiting for me,” he thought, “some place is always waiting⁠—” + 

His clothes were quite as vague as his plans; he was wearing what had first come to hand⁠—an old tweed suit, some well-worn brown shoes, and a shabby grey Homburg hat. To all Maddalena’s protests he had answered firmly: “I can buy what I need on the journey”; so what could she do but put up a prayer that the fine warm weather would hold? + 

He wandered along New Oxford Street, carrying that tiresome suitcase, a ridiculous encumbrance for a very long walk; he must buy himself something more practical, a knapsack⁠—but he felt rather tender towards the suitcase, thinking of Maddalena. + 

“Just for a little I will keep it,” he mused, filled with his gratitude towards her, and filled with a certain sense of guilt also; he had not told her that he meant to tramp: “I will let you know where I am when I get there,” he had said, allowing his wife to suppose that he meant to get there by train. + 

The first part of his journey was dull and uninspiring, Bayswater, Shepherd’s Bush, and then Chiswick High Road; mile upon dreary mile of London⁠—he felt as though the city were stretching out its coils, trying to trip him, to impede him. + 

“It will not let me get out!” he muttered, gripping his suitcase more firmly. + 

But now he was passing Kew Bridge Station, and this reassured him a little; he paused and stood gazing towards the bridge, with his eyes filled with recollection. + 

“Such a very long time ago,” he was thinking; “It was all such a long time ago⁠—” + 

Mario and Rosa, Berta and Geppe, and the little Gian-Luca with his hamper⁠—the sudden blue and coolness of bluebells, a child who had pushed them roughly with his foot because they had made him unhappy, because for some inexplicable reason they had taken the comfort from his motto. A gallant motto it had been in its way, so simple, too: + 

“I have got myself⁠—” + 

“Yes, but no one has really got himself, that is the trouble,” thought Gian-Luca. “Come on, avanti! There is not much time!” Mario limping with his bunion⁠—“Come on, avanti! There is not much time!” and yet Mario was still at the Capo di Monte, and there he would remain unless Millo took pity and rescued the old lame mule⁠—. Mario had never had time to admire things that lay right under his nose, such as a flowering magnolia tree, or prunias in blossom, or a patch of cool bluebells⁠—he had only had time for enormous longings that had stretched to Land’s End and beyond. And supposing he should ultimately reach his Land’s End⁠—why then he would still say: “Avanti! Come on, avanti! There is not much time, we have no time to look at the sea!⁠ ⁠…” + 

Gian-Luca began to walk forward again, and quite soon he had come to Brentford, a detestable place always smelling of gasworks, its streets always fouled by its grimy, black wharves and the grimy boots of its workers. Yet in Brentford it was that the first romance of his pilgrimage touched Gian-Luca; for a steep little hill led down to the water, and there on the water lay a battered old barge, and that barge with a blue swirl of smoke from its chimney was Romance⁠—yes, even in Brentford. But just past the canal he saw a wonderful thing, a tiny orchard in blossom. In spite of the grime and the squalor, it was blooming⁠—a brave little remnant of that army of orchards that must once have marched almost through Brentford itself, filling the air with their good scent of growth and the eye with their heavenly whiteness. Gian-Luca suddenly caught his breath, for a deep new craving was upon him⁠—the craving to bless because of that orchard. + 

“Not God,” thought Gian-Luca, “for I have not yet found Him⁠—” so his grateful heart blessed the orchard. + 

Hounslow he passed, and then Neals’ Corner, after which the tramlines ended. Sturdy quick-hedges began to guard fields, real fields that looked placid and consciously green in the pale April sunlight of the morning. Now he was coming to the open country, and meadows with streams and willows he came to, and a widening stream that spread as it rippled brown over last year’s leaves. A great number of birds were piping and singing⁠—blackbirds and thrushes, with here and there a robin; many other birds also, whose songs were unfamiliar to this man for whom England had meant London. + 

He thought: “It is like a very kind garden where everything goes unmolested.” And he marveled at how little he knew this garden. “I must always have been too busy,” he mused, beginning to loiter a little. + 

He walked down a pathway that led to the stream, and, undoing his suitcase, he got out some food. Maddalena had included hard-boiled eggs in the menu: she had rolled them up carefully in a grey flannel shirtsleeve, and this made him laugh when he found them. But when he discovered what else she had done, his eyes grew pitiful and tender, for lavender sprigs had been laid among his flannels⁠—two little bunches tied up with blue ribbon⁠—and although his bread and butter had a lavender flavor, he consumed it gladly for her sake. + 

It was pleasant under the trees by the water, and he stayed there resting for quite a long time; and as he rested what should he hear but the first insistent call of the cuckoo, that strangely alluring, mysterious call to something that lies always just beyond. + 

Presently he got up and trudged on again, passing through Bedfont, and loitering once more to look at the church, with its tall clipped yew and its curious, squat wooden steeple. By now he was beginning to feel very tired indeed, and the suitcase grew heavier and heavier. Seeing him, one or two people wondered, for the stigma of the city was still upon him in the cut of his suit, in the lightness of his shoes, but above all, perhaps, in his pale, thin face that had lost its Italian sunburn. Footsore and weary, he trudged into Staines and stared dully about him for an inn. He must lodge very cheaply, having brought little money; every penny he had belonged to Maddalena. But he finally selected an inn quite at random, because he liked the look of its signboard⁠—a friendly white lion with the face of a sheepdog. + 

And that was the end of the first day. + 