The Path Now Becomes An Absolute Torrent, With Mud-Thickened Water,
Which Cascades Round One's Ankles In A Sportive Way, And Round One's
Knees In The Hollows In The Path.
On we go, the path underneath the
water seems a pretty equal mixture of rock and mud, but they are not
evenly distributed.
Plantations full of weeds show up on either
side of us, and we are evidently now on the top of a foot-hill. I
suspect a fine view of the sea could be obtained from here, if you
have an atmosphere that is less than 99.75 per cent. of water. As
it is, a white sheet - or more properly speaking, considering its
soft, stuffy woolliness, a white blanket - is stretched across the
landscape to the south-west, where the sea would show.
We go down-hill now, the water rushing into the back of my shoes for
a change. The path is fringed by high, sugar-cane-like grass which
hangs across it in a lackadaisical way, swishing you in the face and
cutting like a knife whenever you catch its edge, and pouring
continually insidious rills of water down one's neck. It does not
matter. The whole Atlantic could not get more water on to me than I
have already got. Ever and again I stop and wring out some of it
from my skirts, for it is weighty. One would not imagine that
anything could come down in the way of water thicker than the rain,
but it can.
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