I laughed, again admiring his command of my first language.

"Why is your English so excellent?" I inquired.

"I'm afraid it's a little neglected," the old man replied. "But they still allow me to teach the subject at the University. I must confess to you that I have absolutely no interest in sport, but these occasions always afford me the opportunity to capture some­one like yourself and oil the rusty machine, even if only for a few minutes." He gave me a tired smile but his eyes were now alight.

"What part of England do you hail from?" For the first time his pronouncement faltered as "hail" came out as "heel".

"Somerset," I told him.

"Ah," he said, "perhaps the most beautiful county in England." I smiled, as most foreigners never seem to travel much beyond Stratford-on-Avon or Oxford. "To drive across the Mendips," he continued, "through perpetually green hilly countryside and to stop at Cheddar to see Cough's caves, at Wells to be amused by the black swans ringing the bell on the Cathedral wall, or at Bath to admire the lifestyle of classical Rome, and then perhaps to go over the county border and on to Devon ... Is Devon even more beautiful than So­merset, in your opinion?"

"Never," said I.

"Perhaps you are a little prejudiced," he laughed. "Now let me see if I can recall:

Of the western counties there are seven

But the most glorious is surely that of Devon.

Perhaps Hardy, like you. was prejudiced and could think only of his beloved Exmoor, the village of Tiverton and Drake's Plymouth." "Which is, your favourite county?" I asked. "The North Riding of Yorkshire has always been underrated, in my opinion," replied the old man. "When people talk of Yorkshire, I suspect Leeds, Sheffield and Barnsley spring to mind. Goal mining and heavy industry. Visitors should travel and see the dales there; they will find them as different as chalk and cheese. Lincolnshire is too flat and so much of the Midlands must now he spoilt by sprawl­ing towns. The Birmingham* of this world hold no appeal for me. But in the end I come down in favour of Worcestershire and Warwickshire, quaint old English villages nestling in the Cotswolds and crowned by Stratford-upon-Avon. How I wish t could have been in England in 1959 while my coun­trymen were recovering from the scars of revolution. Olivier performing Coriolanus, another man who did not want to show his scars."

"I saw the performance," I said. "I went with a school party."

"Lucky boy. I translated the play into Hungarian at the age of nineteen. Reading over my work again last year made me aware I must repeat the exercise before I die."

"You have translated other Shakespeare plays?"

"All but three, 1 have been leaving Hamlet to last, and then I shall return to Coriolanus and start again.

As you are a student, am I permitted to ask which University you attend?"

"Oxford."

"And your College?"

"Brasenose."

"Ah. BNC. How wonderful to be a few yards away from the Bodleian, the greatest library in the world. If I had been born in England I should have wanted to spend my days at All Souls, that is just opposite BNC, is it not?"

"That's right."

The professor stopped talking while we watched the next race, the first semi-final of the 1,500 metres. The winner was Anfras Patovich, a Hungarian, and the partisan crowd went wild with delight.

"That's what I call support," I said.

"Like Manchester United when they have scored the winning goal in the Cup Final. But my fellow countrymen do not cheer because the Hungarian was first," said the old man.

"No?" I said, somewhat surprised.

"Oh, no, they cheer because he beat the Russian."

"I hadn't even noticed," I said.

"There is no reason why you should, but their presence is always in the forefront of our minds and we are rarely given the opportunity to see them beaten in public."