My grandfather used to walk to school. The school was eight kilometres from his village.
In winter he used to leave home before sunrise. He would carry his shoes in his hand for the first three kilometres and walk barefoot, because the road used to be mud — and shoes used to cost a month of his father's work.
"Did you use to cry?" I asked him once.
"No. I didn't use to think about it," he said. "Everybody walked."
He would sit at the back of the class, next to the stove, because his coat was wet every morning. In the evening he would read next to a small oil lamp.
There used to be one book for six pupils. They would copy the pages by hand and change the book on Fridays.
Now a yellow bus stops at the end of our street at half past seven. My grandfather stands at the gate every morning and watches it.
"Did you use to like school?" I asked him last week.
"I used to love the walk," he said. "The school was only at the end of it."