No bad hills except on Buttertubs Pass--which is precipitous in parts--and in Richmond. In the motorist's life there are hours that can never be forgotten. It may be some hour of sunshine that haunts us, when the warm wind, we remember, was heavy with the scent of gorse or pungent with the stinging breath of the sea; or some hour when the road lay white and straight before us across a moor, and the waves of heather rolled away from us to the horizon in long curves of colour, and as we sped over the miles we seemed no nearer to the shore of the purple sea nor to the end of the white straight road; or it may be, perhaps, the hour of our gradual approach to some ancient city transfigured in th…
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