146 WHAT I HAVE SEEN WHILE FISHING 



struggled with the rough moor and its sodden 

 soil. Then came miles of bog and peat that had 

 deep cuttings with juicy brown water in their 

 trenches, and blackened stumps of forest trees that 

 kindly Time had buried out of sight. 



Then down again almost to sea level, where in 

 many a sheltered nook vine-like brambles, laden 

 with luscious fruit, and tall bracken, the points of 

 their upper leaves still uncoiled and looking like 

 innumerable nut-brown caterpillars that had climbed 

 to heights where they could best be seen, joined 

 with gaily-decked foxgloves to clothe and beautify 

 the high sea wall. 



Out and beyond were protecting trees, dwarfed 

 and bent inwards by western winds, while on the 

 road's other side, in firmer soil, the mountain-ash 

 in all its glory gave shade to the refreshing tints of 

 beautiful ferns and pretty fluttering grasses. 



Never have I seen a spot that so vividly 

 recalled my native county, and never since I was 

 a boy have I so filled myself with blackberries or 

 felt so inclined to loiter. 



To reach the berries we had at times to lean 

 our bodies so near to balancing on the wall that to 

 prevent toppling over we held each other's heels. 

 Once I playfully relaxed my hold the weeniest bit 

 and there came apparently from a long way down, 

 " Hold on there, dad." 



The nests we saw fixed in the forked branches 

 against the wall would have made my heart go 



