EXMOOR 



205 



tangle of flowers and the carry-gutters, 

 loaded with loosestrife and willow- 

 herb and tufts of fragrant meadow- 

 sweet, made lines and chequers of 

 coloured blossom on the bright green 

 of the grass. These brilliant little 

 foregrounds, held in the curved arm 

 of the river, were made more secluded 

 and more lonely by the steep hills 

 and shaggy woods that gird them in. 

 You left or entered them, as the 

 opposite hills approached or receded 

 from each other, almost as by the 

 opening and shutting of a door, and 

 each reluctant backward glance was 

 followed by a forward one of fresh 

 pleasure. 



But of what effect is this beautiful 

 valley, with its meadows and woods, 

 that it took me hours to pass through, 

 where a man might pass weeks of his 

 life of what effect is it all in the 

 panorama I now have at my feet ? 

 Just a corner I can indeed make out, 

 a recess of woodland under the angle 

 of a steep hill, no more than a square 

 inch, so to speak, of the great map 

 before me, which I know belongs to 

 my route and is a glimpse into that 

 valley which an hour ago seemed all 

 the world to me. The rest is hidden 

 and does not count. And how many 

 scores of other valleys, similar in rich- 

 ness and beauty, are hidden likewise 



by those great, calmly dominant, 

 smooth-curved hills that keep watch 

 and ward over the landscape ? 



It so happens that a good many 

 years ago I came upon a verse or two 

 written in a note book, evidently by a 

 lover of the West Country, and I am 

 tempted to insert them here, not that 

 they have any particular merit, for 

 they are scarcely intended as poetry, 

 but because they, too, try and express 

 that contrast of softness and ruggedness 

 which I have suggested as the note 

 of our West Country scenery. The 

 river Lyn runs not far from Dunkery, 

 northward through a dense oak covert 

 till it enters the Bristol Channel at 

 Lynmouth. The verses are as follows : 



" When I had walked for many hours up the 



twisting valley, 

 Following your secret course, river Lyn, 



through the woods ; 

 When I had often stood in the bracken, with 



the angular boughs meeting above me. 

 And listened to the bubble and gurgle of the 



water and the softer whisper of the 



summer wind, 

 And leaned my shoulder against the mossy 



rocks, and looked into your golden depths, 



Lyn, 

 And watched the sparks of bubble breaking 



in the black shadows : 

 Then I thought that I could always be happy 



here, 

 That the joy of the valley left nothing to be 



desired. 

 But when later I had left it and climbed the 



steep path leading to the moor ; 

 When I stood at last on the forehead of the 



mountain, 

 Poised on the slope alone, the wind singing 



between my teeth, 



