At Any Moment We May Encounter A Flying Shell,
Which Will Send Us Somewhere Farther Off Than Grez.
Grez - for that is our destination - has been highly recommended for
its beauty.
'Il y a de l'eau,' people have said, with an emphasis,
as if that settled the question, which, for a French mind, I am
rather led to think it does. And Grez, when we get there, is
indeed a place worthy of some praise. It lies out of the forest, a
cluster of houses, with an old bridge, an old castle in ruin, and a
quaint old church. The inn garden descends in terraces to the
river; stable-yard, kailyard, orchard, and a space of lawn, fringed
with rushes and embellished with a green arbour. On the opposite
bank there is a reach of English-looking plain, set thickly with
willows and poplars. And between the two lies the river, clear and
deep, and full of reeds and floating lilies. Water-plants cluster
about the starlings of the long low bridge, and stand half-way up
upon the piers in green luxuriance. They catch the dipped oar with
long antennae, and chequer the slimy bottom with the shadow of
their leaves. And the river wanders and thither hither among the
islets, and is smothered and broken up by the reeds, like an old
building in the lithe, hardy arms of the climbing ivy. You may
watch the box where the good man of the inn keeps fish alive for
his kitchen, one oily ripple following another over the top of the
yellow deal.
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