It is spring, moonless night in the small town, starless and bible-black, the cobbledstreets silent and the hunched courters'-and-rabbits' wood limping invisible down to the sloeblack, slow, black, crowblack, fishingboat-bobbing sea.
We are planes, trains, and automobiles, and we're always hauling stuff up these tiny cobblestone streets, so the more mobile you are, the better.
What can you do if a part of it is uphill? You can't work out another route. You've just got to run the one they give you. But they tell me London is a nice course. Even the cobbles, I hope, are not very much of a problem for me.
His voice was handsome and broken, like a cobblestone street.
Commuting in a wheelchair is not easy. I live in a very old part of Rome. These cobbles everywhere... terrible! In London, it is the same. Every pavement is uneven.
How strange to read of a place in a book, and then stand on it, listen to the birds sing, and spit on the cobbles if you want.
Though times have changed, it's a nice surprise to see that youthful feeling of anti-war sentiment returning once more to the cobbled main streets of Europe.
The air was soft, the stars so fine, the promise of every cobbled alley so great, that I thought I was in a dream.
