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When Butterfield’s arguments were restated by Adrian Wilson and T. G. Ashplant in 1988, the central feature of the historian’s enterprise had become the fact that texts which survive from the past are written in what amounts to a foreign language.

Before hopping a steamer to Holland, Fermor had bought a walking stick at a London tobacconist, a “well-balanced ashplant.”

He gave me the time-a-day And doitered over the hill, Walloping his gay ashplant And shouting his fill.

All four men--one of them was named Ashplant, a second Moody--went to the gallows without any sign of penitence.

Who is this, not much higher than the cattle, Working his way towards me through the pen,His ashplant in one hand Lifted and pointing, a stick of keelIn the other, calling to where I'm perchedOn top of a shaky gate, Waving and calling something I cannot hearWith all the lowing and roaring, lorries revvingAt the far end of the yard, the dealers Shouting among themselves, and now to himSo that his eyes leave mine and I knowThe pain of loss before I know the term.