BROADLAND IN WINTER 367 



tensive, and the whole of Norfolk is no doubt being 

 gradually raised yet farther beyond the reach of the sea. 

 Life becomes adventurous on Breydon when the 

 thick sea fogs roll over all the flats, bringing sudden 

 night at any hour of the day. In a few minutes the 

 puntsman has lost his bearings. The tide may have 

 drifted him beyond the drain he was making for or 

 it may have taken him within it ; he may be in the 

 fairway or he may be on some mud flat that will 

 hold him, as soon as the water falls a few inches, 

 for a cold and miserable five or six hours. If he 

 is wise, he anchors while he is yet fairly certain of 

 his position. The notes of perplexed fowl come to 

 him through the fog, and if a titlark flies overhead, 

 its wings sound in the dense air almost as loud as 

 the pinions of a duck. He is perhaps companioned 

 within a yard or two by some bird that he would 

 give his eyes to see at such close quarters. In 

 otherwise clear weather heavy rain sometimes falls 

 so thickly that the birds disappear at a space of a 

 few yards, and the gentle cry of dunlins can be 

 heard on all sides without one of them coming in 

 sight. Picturesque as are the flying scuds, dashing 

 the glum mirror of the Broads into white spray with 

 their passing feet, we like better the open weather 

 of the most bitter frost. Even the hardened 

 Breydoner cannot stand the rain long, making for 

 any shelter when once it has been made clear that 

 it must be wet for a few hours on end. But when 

 the tide runs up to the sound of the tinkling ice, 

 when the dead reeds are held fast with a frozen 

 sheet daily stretching farther over the deeps, when 

 the boat's prow and the oars to the gunwale are 



