68 GOLDEN DAYS 



and in its glow there lies a well-remem- 

 bered valley, where the asphodel only 

 a few short weeks ago broke in a mist of 

 cream and rose. Now wild forget-me-not 

 grows down to the edge of the peat- 

 coloured water, interspersed with the 

 young green shoots of butterwort. 



There are tussocks of coarse grass 

 beyond the yellow gravel spit, where a 

 sandpiper has her nest. She flutters off, 

 but watches anxiously, close at hand, 

 feigning a broken wing, till a rising fish in 

 the pool above draws us from her zone of 

 danger. The eggs will be hatched within 

 the next few days. 



This upper stretch of stream is long and 

 straight. Its gurgling head-waters are 

 fairly shallow, making a ford for cattle, 

 and spanned by a low bridge of giant 

 stones, where a single stunted pine keeps 

 sentinel. Here the current chuckles 

 and gurgles past high banks of heather, 

 and then lies deep and grows quiet, just 

 murmuring as it eddies past some lichen- 

 covered boulders. Each rock forms an 

 oily glide, which is broken now and again 

 by a widening circle. This can be an 



