Over the Hills and Far Away 



does. By the mossy path through masses of 

 rhododendrons, and birch, and beech, and oak, 

 and pine — pheasants rocketing and rabbits scurry- 

 ing at every turn — you come to a gate leading to 

 a water meadow, on the other side of which is a 

 mighty range of chestnuts and ancient plane trees. 

 The meadow is richly decked with kingcups and 

 flowers of Parnassus, buttercups and daisies, and 

 lords and ladies. It is only crossable in summer. 

 . . . Let it be summer, and we will cross it, scale 

 the iron fence, and find ourselves in the path under 

 the chestnuts along the wide stretch of the river 

 which flows by long windings to the Thames, and 

 so to London, where, as Elisabeth would say, it 

 becomes part and parcel of an economic entity, 

 and an asset in the nation's wealth. Here it has 

 a wealth of beauty beyond all price, as it moves 

 sluggishly in its broad bed, rich with flowering 

 reeds, and herbs, and flags, and tangled growth, 

 while the great trees hang down their arms and 

 dabble their green fingers in the water. Best and 

 most beloved of all are the giant chestnuts, which 

 together form a green-roofed house, cool and lofty, 

 at the final bend before the Georgian house and 

 the grey walls of the ruined abbey come into view. 

 The great branches sweep down within two feet 

 of the ground and the water, and there is a little 

 i 113 



