The journey from Warsaw to Wloclawek was depressing: eighty-five miles of uneven road through flat featureless country, through villages poor and dirty beyond description, ankle-deep in mud and manure, the people dressed in layers of assorted garments, standing at the doors of their decrepit shanties, staring intently at our smart British car which belonged to my hosts. They had no other vehicle to stare at except long, narrow, wooden carts drawn by horses.

The journey back was more than depressing; it was frightening. For three-quarters of the way we were in thick fog, and the idea of spending the night in the car on the side of the road in that strange land was less alarming than the prospect of seeking shelter in one of the primitive villages. So we went steadily on, hardly faster than the wooden carts that sometimes trundled through the darkness. I was chilled, tired, hungry and very angry. The journey had been a waste of time and a mockery.

The day before, I was delighted to hear that my request to meet one of the bishops had been granted. The prelate I had named was Mgr Klepacz, Bishop of Lodz. Although the next day was to be my last in Poland and all my careful arrangements had to be altered, I was pleased with the thought of meeting the Chairman of the Conference of Bishops and the close friend of Cardinal Wyszynski. Then, when all these adjustments had been made, I was told that I was being escorted not to Lodz but to Wloclawek, not to see Bishop Klepacz but Bishop Pawlowski, the one bishop in Poland who agrees to, or is allowed to, receive foreigners, the one bishop of them all who is suspected of finding favour with the government.