The most characteristic district of South Devon, the greenest,
most luxuriant in its vegetation, and perhaps the hottest in
England, is that bit of country between the Exe and the Axe
which is watered by the Clyst, the Otter, and the Sid. In any
one of a dozen villages found beside these pretty little
rivers a man might spend a month, a year, a lifetime, very
agreeably, ceasing not to congratulate himself on the good
fortune which first led him into such a garden. Yet after a
week or two in this luxurious land I began to be dissatisfied
with my surroundings. It was June; the weather was
exceptionally dry and sultry. Vague thoughts, or "visitings"
of mountains and moors and coasts would intrude to make the
confinement of deep lanes seem increasingly irksome. Each day
I wandered miles in some new direction, never knowing whither
the devious path would lead me, never inquiring of any person,
nor consulting map or guide, since to do that is to deprive
oneself of the pleasure of discovery; always with a secret
wish to find some exit as it were - some place beyond the
everlasting wall of high hedges and green trees, where there
would be a wide horizon and wind blowing unobstructed over
leagues of open country to bring me back the sense of lost
liberty. I found only fresh woods and pastures new that were
like the old; other lanes leading to other farm-houses, each
in its familiar pretty setting of orchard and garden; and,
finally, other ancient villages, each with its ivy-grown grey
church tower looking down on a green graveyard and scattered
cottages, mostly mud-built and thatched with straw.
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