Torchwood
 

picked his way up the lane through dappled light and shade,
stepping out into pools of gold wherever the boughs parted. Under the trees
to the left of him the ground was misty with bluebells. The air seemed to
kiss one's skin. It was the second of May. From somewhere deeper in the
heart of the wood came the droning of ring doves.
He was a bit early. There had been no difficulties about the journey,
and the girl was so evidently experienced that he was less frightened than
he would normally have been. Presumably she could be trusted to find a safe
place. In general you could not assume that you were much safer in the
country than in London. There were no telescreens, of course, but there was
always the danger of concealed microphones by which your voice might be
picked up and recognized; besides, it was not easy to make a journey by
yourself without attracting attention. For distances of less than 100
kilometres it was not necessary to get your passport endorsed, but
sometimes there were patrols hanging about the railway stations, who
examined the papers of any Party member they found there and asked awkward
questions. However, no patrols had appeared, and on the walk from the
station he had made sure by cautious backward glances that he was not being
followed. The train was full of proles, in holiday mood because of the
summery weather. The wooden-seated carriage in which he travelled was
filled to overflowing by a single enormous family, ranging from a toothless
great-grandmother to a month-old baby, going out to spend an afternoon with
'in-laws' in the country, and, as they freely explained to Winston, to get
hold of a little blackmarket butter.
The lane widened, and in a minute he came to the footpath she had told
him of, a mere cattle-track which plunged between the bushes. H