Apologies to one G. Chaucer, who’s probably revolving in his grave as we speak and shouting ‘What foul travestie ys thys?’
Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote
The droghte of Marche hath perced to the roote,*
Than longen folk to goon a-marketinge,
And specially, from every shires ende
Of Engelond, to Richemond they wende,
The agency Velocitie to seke,
That them wil helpen, whan that they are stucke.

–
*’When April with his sweet showers/Has pierced the drought of March to the root’
–
Thanks to Satguru for the photo of Dunstable Road
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