When we had said goodbye to [Lady Norman and Nigel, who were taking a day trip to Passchendale together], Daddy Blow and I embarked on our day’s adventures…
The day grew rapidly blacker as Mr Blow and I set out for Boulogne. By and by the snow started, then turned to sleet, and in such a biting wind as neither of us ever remembered we forged along, hardly able to see or feel. I was thankful not to be responsible for driving, for the sleet cut one’s eyes and blinded one, and the glass had to be let down to see at all.
We put on the best speed possible and reached Boulogne about 3′ o clock, going straight to the Hotel Christol to let them know I had arrived and would like to start work there shortly.
I managed to get a hurried – very hurried – plate of Daddy Blow in the car before he started to leave Boulogne, which he hated like poison.
The old man had brought us through our adventures as few would have done. The professional chauffeur would assuredly have arranged accidents or punctures at many critical points. But Daddy Blow, however much he disapproved – and he did disapprove very often – had somehow managed to keep Henry Ford up to the mark and had brought us over 900 miles of atrociously bad roads – in parts – without a single puncture. He had not enjoyed it all as we had, for he had already had plenty of war and hospitals, and did not pretend to be interested in all that we found amusing; but at Cassell he said he would not have missed the trip for anything, and spoke quite warmly of the interest it had been to him. He made it a very strong point of honour to bring us through successfully, and nobly he did it.