It was a dismal April afternoon, even by the standards of Hopeless, Maine.

A cruel wind roared in from the Atlantic, bringing with it driving rain and freezing temperatures.

Reggie Upton had planned to do a spot of flaneuring that afternoon, but it would clearly be out of the question now; in order to flaneur properly one would need clement weather, preferably with a spot of sunshine.

“You definitely won’t be flanneling anywhere today,” stated Philomena Bucket, as if reading Reggie’s mind.

The old soldier had long ago given up correcting Philomena’s pronunciation.

“But if you’re at a loose end, I could do with someone tidying up in the top attic,” she added.

Reggie sighed. While he was always happy to rummage in any of The Squid and Teapot’s several attics, tidying up sounded like too much of a chore.

“What is up there that so desperately needs tidying?” he asked, imagining piles of clothing, curtains and bedding, all unwanted, even by the less than affluent residents of Hopeless.

“Books, mainly,” she replied.

Reggie brightened. He liked books.

“Very well, m’dear, I’m always happy to help,” he said.

Philomena Bucket is no fool. It was obvious to her that Reggie was going to mope around all day, getting underfoot and feeling generally sorry for himself. A few hours surrounded by a small mountain of books would do him the world of good.

From the earliest days of the Founding Families, successive landlords of the inn had salvaged every shipwrecked item that they could lay their hands on, simply on the basis that, one day, these things would eventually ‘come in handy’. By and large the policy worked well, but the number of unwanted books grew and grew each year. It is sad to relate that, with one or two exceptions, the islanders of Hopeless are not great bibliophiles.

 Reggie was sitting on a pile of slightly mildewed volumes of the Encyclopaedia Britannica, happily thumbing through an anthology of Victorian poetry. He smiled to himself at the familiarity of some of these verses, many of which he had been required to learn by heart as a schoolboy. His eye fell upon Robert Browning’s ‘Home Thoughts from Abroad”.

“Oh to be in England, now that April’s here…’

He spoke the words aloud, and as he did so, looked out through the tiny attic window, rain-lashed and grimy, on to a cheerless vista.

“Oh to be in England, now that April’s here,” he repeated to himself, “I wonder if I shall ever see England again?”

By the following morning the storm had blown itself out. Taking advantage of the change in the weather, Reggie decked himself out in his best three-piece tweed suit, put a shine on his shoes, set his Homburg hat at a rakish angle and went off flaneuring, sword stick in hand. The true flaneur has no definite destination in mind, only a desire to watch the world go by as they meander on their way. Reggie adhered to this philosophy to a degree, but making sure that his aimless wandering would cross the path of Mr Squash, the Sasquatch who was temporarily visiting the island. In recent weeks the two had become firm friends, close enough, in Reggie’s estimation, that it would not be too impertinent to ask Mr Squash for a small favour.

 “England? No, I have not been there.” said the Sasquatch. “I hear that there are no great forests anymore in England.”

“My dear chap,” said Reggie, “there is the New Forest, the Forest of Dean, Sherwood Forest, Epping Forest…”

“These are little more than copses, compared with the vast forests of North America,” said Mr Squash, “and far too small for someone like me to live in.”

“But, even so, is there a chance that you would take me there?” asked Reggie.

“Sorry,” said Mr Squash. “Taking a human through one of my portals is perilous beyond belief – Winston was close to death, so I took a chance with him. And anyway, any portal I might have had to your homeland is long disused and dangerous. Besides, the country has probably changed a lot since you were last there. You may find that the England of today is far removed from the one you left in nineteen-twelve.”

“Nonsense,” said Reggie, emphatically. “England will never change!”

Reggie had known for a long time that Philomena was the last of a long line of powerful witches. It did not surprise or bother him. He had seen enough of the world to know that there was far more to it than that which is visible to mortal eyes. The love of his life, the Theosophist, Annie Besant, had taught him that much in India. Maybe Philomena had some means to let him see his beloved England again.

Philomena shook her head.

*I am sorry Reggie,” she said. “If I had the ability to help people to leave Hopeless, the island would be empty by now.”

“Is there nothing you can do?” Reggie was almost begging. “I would love to see the place where I grew up, just one more time.”

Philomena thought for a moment, then held out her hands. “Take my hands, close your eyes and visualise where it is that you wish to visit.”

Reggie did as he was told, and to his surprise a wonderfully vivid picture immediately came into his mind. He could clearly see the meadow where he played as a child, with the little stream running through it. It was springtime, and the grass was starred with daisies and scatterings of soft yellow primroses. A blackthorn hedge separated the meadow from an ancient, majestic beech wood, which looked dark and cool in the light of an early April morning.

A tear escaped from Reggie’s closed eyes, then he gasped.

The picture was changing.

Little by little the meadow and woodland disappeared beneath a sprawl of streets and brick-built houses; the little stream was lost forever.

Reggie could take no more, and opened his eyes.

“Is that really..?” he could not complete his sentence.

Philomena nodded and squeezed his hand. “We need to get back to The Squid and Teapot,” she said. “It’s time to go home.”