AT VILLA BOCAGE 67 



mountain peaks commence to show, and, with 

 their advent, is provided the one sadly missing 

 factor in the landscape ; it at once takes on a 

 completeness which the bare plains of the lower 

 river have taught us to appreciate. 



The next morning, having been able, thanks to a 

 full moon, to proceed by night instead of tying up 

 to the river bank as otherwise we should have 

 inevitably done, we wake to find ourselves at 

 Villa Bocage on the Shir^ River. This lovely but 

 most insalubrious spot is at the very foot of the 

 mountains, which tower above the river bank to a 

 height which the mist of the early morning prevents 

 us from estimating. After an early breakfast, as 

 the steamer is not to leave until 10 o'clock, 1 take 

 a shot gun and stroll away along the bank to 

 plunge almost immediately into the thickly growing 

 forest. Here, at this time of the year, the 

 vegetation displays a vast wealth of colour and 

 detail, whilst the water reflects a sky all dappled 

 with fleecy clouds terminating in edges of luminous 

 straw colour. It is only rising mist, however, and 

 no anxiety need be felt concerning it. Forest trees 

 have always had an extraordinary fascination for 

 me, whether at midday stretched out for my siesta 

 beneath their shade, or camped for the night in 

 their purple shadow. Their cool, grateful greenness 

 — that delicious greenness upon which the eye, 

 tired and aching from the hard, white, radiating 

 heat outside, turns with a sensation of welcome 

 relief — draws me towards their cool protection like 

 the irresistible influence of a powerful magnet. I 

 never see one felled without experiencing a vague 



