In front was a long,
long level valley, perhaps three to five miles broad (I can't judge
distance in this atmosphere; a house that looks a quarter of a mile
off is two miles distant). At the extreme end, in a little gap
between two low brown hills that crossed each other, one could just
see Worcester - five hours' drive off. Behind it, and on each side
the plain, mountains of every conceivable shape and colour; the
strangest cliffs and peaks and crags toppling every way, and tinged
with all the colours of opal; chiefly delicate, pale lilac and
peach colour, but varied with red brown and Titian green. In spite
of the drought, water sparkled on the mountain-sides in little
glittering threads, and here and there in the plain; and pretty
farms were dotted on either side at the very bottom of the slopes
toward the mountain-foot. The sky of such a blue! (it is deeper
now by far than earlier in the year). In short, I never did see
anything so beautiful. It even surpassed Hottentot's Holland. On
we went, straight along the valley, crossing drift after drift; - a
drift is the bed of a stream more or less dry; in which sometimes
you are drowned, sometimes only POUNDED, as was our hap. The track
was incredibly bad, except for short bits, where ironstone
prevailed. However, all went well, and on the road I chased and
captured a pair of remarkably swift and handsome little
'Schelpats'.
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