The Eve of Saint Hyacinth

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It was the eighth of June, the Eve of the Feast of Saint Columba, and in less than seventy-two hours it would be the longest day of the year, when the bright, dewy mornings and the seemingly endless evenings made it a pleasure to be on the road.

I had set out from Totnes at the beginning of May in that year of Our Lord 1475, and spent the intervening weeks selling my wares in as many hamlets and villages along the south coast of England as I was able to reach in comfort, without the expense of hiring a local guide. Such men were apt to overcharge for their services and, for all I know, still do. But I am old now, in my seventieth year, and no longer stray far from my native Wells. Almost half a century ago, however, I was young and vigorous, six feet tall and strongly built, and had chosen the freedom of a pedlar’s life in preference to entering the Benedictine Order, which had been the dearest wish of my dead mother’s heart.

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