There were dusty tracks for exercising horses on both sides of the road. I like to see fine horses running at full speed. To see this sight, or hounds running on a good scent4, or children dancing, is to me the same as music, and therefore, I suppose, as full of mortality and beauty. I sat down for some time watching the horses.
Devil’s Ditch.
Beyond the second milestone5, and just before the turning to the right for Cambridge, the road passed through the Devil’s Ditch, a deep ditch with a high bank on the Newmarket edge of it, stretching several miles on either side of the way from north-west to south-east in a straight line. At the gap made by the road stood what seemed to[106] be old turnpike houses. Beyond the ditch the road was a hedged one, shaded by beeches6 on both sides, and having borders of deep, dusty grass, in which stood the telegraph posts. The long, narrow copse of beech7 on the right was not strictly8 closed, but remained unspoilt and tenanted by doves. Yet it was not long before I began to look out for a cart to carry me over the next six miles of the straight road. Such a road is tiring, because either the eye or the mind’s eye sees long, taunting9, or menacing lengths before it, and is brought into conflict with sheer distance, and the mind is continually trying to carry the body over this distance with her own celerity, and being again and again defeated and more and more conscious of defeat, becomes irritated, if not happily numbed10, by the importunate11 monotony.
This was country, moreover, which the unaided eye could easily explore. It lay open and without mystery. Nothing had to be climbed or quested for. Therefore still more did the legs resent doing what wheels or other legs could do far better. Any wheeled vehicle, from a motor-car to a legless beggar’s trolley12, would help a man through this country. In Wiltshire or Cardiganshire there is nothing so good as your own legs, even if they are bad. But in Cambridgeshire I recommend elephant, camel, horse, mule14, donkey, motor-car, waggon15, or cart, anything except a covered cab or a pair of hobnailed shoes.
A fine region spread out upon the right as I was approaching Six Mile Bottom—a sweep of arable,[107] mostly corn-covered, but with reddish, new-ploughed squares, and here and there a team at work, rising up to a copse or two on the low ridges13—not a building visible but a windmill—and far beyond these, blue hills. A very simple country it was, that might have been moulded by a strong north wind when the land was docile16 as snow. Over it hung a sky of perfect summer and a sun like a god that made me ashamed to crawl as habit and the necessity of writing a book compelled me to do. It was a country for clouds, but there was none. Had there been, I should not have been so well acquainted with the hard, straight road, often slightly embanked, or having depressions on either side, and in the right-hand one several well-worn paths. By the turning to Weston Colville and West Wratting it went level and straight as usual. On the left the corn was hedgeless; on the right a low hedge separated me from ploughland and the windmill on a mile-distant ridge; and the depression on the left was thrice the width of the road, and used as a cart track, with merely a white centre and ruts among the flowers of plantain and lady’s slipper17. Many larks18 were singing. I became a connoisseur19 in road-sides, and noticed each change, as that when the road was cut or embanked it usually lost its breadth of margin20, and that now there was a hedge on both hands instead of one, and in them roses—the pink roses which have the pure, slender perfume connected by the middle-aged21 with youth.
Fleam Dyke22.
Past the eighth milestone the road went through[108] Fleam Dyke, which is shorter than the Devil’s Ditch, because the fen23 to which it stretches northward24 is nearer. The ditch is on the far side, a green farm track goes along the mound25 on the near or Newmarket side. Just before it I saw a green way, a parish boundary, branching up out of my road eastward26 between separate thorns and making over the highland27 to the valley of the Stour. Beyond the dyke was another fine open cornland northward, lines of trees down its slopes, woods on its ridges, and the tall chimneys of Cambridge six miles away. On the other hand a beech plantation28 lined the road and shadowed[109] the grassy29 edge on which I walked. After the beeches there were wayside roses, and a low hedge and still a broad, grassy border, where the short-tailed young blackbirds hurried before me among the paper wrappers of sausages, etc., thrown out by motorists from Cambridge.
On my right was an artificial wall of turf going in the same direction as the road. This might have been an ancient earthwork, if the map had not said “Old Railway.” A disused railway embankment gave me more pleasure than a prehistoric30 dyke. It was also charming in itself, and had thorns prettily31 growing on its green slopes. Soon it was changed to a cutting, and, above it, a little round rise crowned by eight poor firs in a tragic32 group, a few hundred yards from the road. Past the tenth milestone the main road reaches Worsted Lodge33 and crosses the straight line of a Roman road from Grantchester and Godmanchester. The line of my road is continued by a lesser34 way to Babraham and Pampisford, but the road itself turns abruptly36 from a south-westerly almost to a southerly course, yet still straight. Nearly all the roads hereabout were as straight as if Roman, the low and even land offering no impediments. There was one, for example, parallel with the Roman road and crossing the Icknield Way exactly at the tenth milestone, having come down from Fulbourn Valley Farm alongside a regiment37 of beeches, and continuing, after an interruption by a kitchen garden, to Gunner’s Hall beyond. Between this and the Roman road, at the wayside, was a long, flint-tiled building[110] of respectable age, with a mansard roof, small latticed windows in three tiers, and a louvre on top like a small oast cone38. The line of the old railway continued to be marked by a slight bank and thickets39 of thorns. My road had broad green borders which the copse of Grange Farm interrupted. There were now more copses, and the land was more broken up, though still mainly supporting corn and hurdled40 sheep. At Bourn Bridge, near the twelfth milestone, there was a ford35 through the Granta, shaded by elms and poplars and occupied by cattle swishing their tails in silence. At the milestone the common road to Royston branches off to the right with broad green borders, but my way lay straight on over the new railway by Pampisford station and through Brent Ditch. After the thirteenth milestone the old railway had gathered quite a copse of ash and thorn and brier about it. Near the fourteenth milestone I began to see a pleasant valley land below on the right, and groves41 marking the Cam’s course by the spires42 of Hinxton and Ickleton, and beyond them gentle, bare hills with crowns of trees. At this milestone I saw myriads43 of a most delicate blue flax shuddering44 in the wind. Here Essex comes up to the road and pursues it to Ickleton, even though at Stump45 Cross it turns sharp to the right out of the London road and becomes a lane to Ickleton, a green lane with white ruts making for the church, and crossing an artificial embankment which turned out to be the old railway again. My road forded the[111] Cam at Ickleton. This was a quiet white and grey village, built partly about the road which encircles the church, but chiefly on both sides of a road leading west. The walls were of flint or of plaster, sometimes decorated with patterns in line, and there was abundant thatch46. Here and there the cottages were interrupted and a gateway47 opened into a farm-yard. The church, a flint one, was as cool as it was old, and full of christened sunlight and the chirping48 of sparrows. There were many tablets in it to the memory of people named Hanchett—a name not in the Dictionary of National Biography. The most conspicuous49 thing[112] in the church was a circular frame over an arch, enclosing the inscription50 in large letters: “This church was repair’d 1820. Henry Chambers51 and John Hill, Churchwardens.” Much smaller letters below said: “Fear God and honour the King.”
Ickleton.
Leaving Ickleton by its chief street, Abbey Street, I entered an open country rising on all sides. I took the south-westerly road towards Elmdon, and then a right-hand turning out of that which went in a straight line to Ickleton Granges. This is probably a new country road, with hedges and only the narrowest of green strips beside it: it is not the Icknield Way. The old road possibly ran along the gently rising ploughland half-way up it, past Rectory Farm. There is still a footpath52 from near Abbey Farm and the Priory remains53 to Rectory Farm, which may represent the course of the Icknield Way, continued by a broken line of thorns reaching almost to Ickleton Granges fifty or a hundred yards north-west of the present road. Past the Granges I turned sharp to the right along a drove coming through the corn from Littlebury and Saffron Walden. At a turning on the left to Redland’s Hall this road became a county boundary, and I went uphill to the corner of a copse, where it made another bend westward54. At the bend there was a triangle of turf upon the right, so that the right-hand bank, which lies beyond this turf, suggested a road coming from the east, that is to say from Rectory Farm and Ickleton Priory. The road was now well up above the land to its right, and I could see the straight ridge[113] near Cambridge which carries the Mare55 Way. On the other hand were the gentle Anthony Hill and Clay Hill, and in front the high land above Royston and its straight bars of wood. The road was making almost due west for Royston. It went between corn, clover, or new-ploughed land; white bryony grew in its low hedges, and even sprawled56 over the dusty, rabbity mound by the wayside; and it had grass borders of its own width. At first it was rough, but hard and white. Soon it became practically a green road, and then wholly so, but level and rideable. In one place it was lined by lime trees; in others all was elder flower, wild[114] rose, and lady’s slipper, and the chatter57 of young birds. Beyond the road to Dottrell Hall and the lovely group of sycamore and hornbeams at the crossing, it was much worn again. It was a farm road used only by waggons58 and men between field and field, or at most between farm and farm. It might have seemed no more than a series, four miles long, of consecutive59 cart tracks, rarely with a hedge on both sides, between it and the cultivated land. It gave a sense of privacy and freedom combined. At a cottage, one of two that had once been a single farm, and still had a thatched shed and a weedy yard, I knocked to ask for water.
Approaching Royston.
A huge wheel and windlass and a seven-gallon tub stood above a well in the yard. A wild-looking cat bounded through the window of one of the cottages which seemed to be empty. The other might also have been empty, in spite of its dirty muslin curtain, for I knocked long and no one came. Just as I was turning to get water for myself a human being with black hair and wild eyes looked out of an upper window and hailed me with a kind of scream. As she was not half dressed, I told her to leave me to look after myself. The well seemed bottomless, but I had the seven gallons of dark, bright water up on the edge by the time my hostess appeared with a dirty cup. She was a thin, hawk-faced woman, bare and brown to the breast, and with glittering blue eyes, and in her upper jaw60 three strong teeth. She was dressed in black rags. She shaded her eyes to look at me, as if I were half a mile away.
“You’re thin, boy,” she said, “like me.”
“Yes.”
A pause.
“Are you middling well off?”
“Yes, middling. Are you?”
“Oh, middling; but times are hard.”
“They are.”
She looked extraordinarily61 sad, and I said:—
“Still, we shall have a few years to wait for the workhouse.”
“Have to wait a few years!” she repeated, very serious, though smiling. “Have you come from Royston?”
“No; Newmarket.”
“Newmarket. Are you going far?”
“To Odsey, between Royston and Baldock.”
“It’s a long way. You’re thin, boy.”
“Food doesn’t nourish me. Men cannot live on bread only, not even brown bread made at home.”
“No.”
“Now in the moon, perhaps, I should get fat.”
“Perhaps indeed, and I too. But look at the moon. You give me the horrors. You couldn’t live there.”
It was a thin three-quarters of a circle in a hot sky.
“But,” I said, “I should like to try.”
“Would you?”
“Yes, provided I were someone different. For, as for me, this is no doubt the best of all possible worlds.”
“Better than the moon?”
“Yes, better than the moon; and there is nothing better in it than your well water, missus. Good afternoon.”
Framed clearly against her solitary62 pink-washed cottage, she stared after me, shading her eyes.
Two or three times along these four miles of road I saw a square of trees protecting a farm or “grange,” most of the villages having a grange out in the open country named after them, as Duxford Grange, Ickleton Grange, Chrishall Grange, Heydon Grange. But on the road itself there were no houses except Noon’s Folly63 and one called Shapens, not even at the crossings of more important roads. For the most part it kept level: where it had to dip slightly after the turn to Great Chishall it was worn several feet deep, but this was exceptional. Beyond that it was worn unevenly64 into two parallel tracks between hedges with beech trees and elders. To the right the pleasant tree-crowned rise of Goffer’s Knoll65 stood up on the other side of the main Newmarket and Royston road, now fast nearing my road. Past Noon’s Folly Farm the road had a narrow and embanked course, but parallel with it a depression seamed by paths and cart tracks. Here and for some way past—from half-way between Noon’s Folly and the Barley66 road—the way is a boundary between Cambridgeshire and Hertfordshire. I had not been out of Cambridgeshire since I left Suffolk at the Kennett bridge.
Icknield Way, crossing Ermine Street.
Half a mile west of Noon’s Folly the main road >[118] reached my road, and, turning west instead of south-west, made use of its course for the two miles into Royston. For most of the two miles this piece of road, exactly continuing my old way, had broad green edges, and on the left hand, beeches. Coming to a rise it was cut through the ridge and embanked again below. It went straight through the big village or little town of Royston, where it crossed Ermine Street, and took the name of Baldock Street from the town ahead. As it was market day everyone was driving out of Royston with his trap full of chickens and parcels of all kinds, not to speak of wife and children. This was my first real chance of a lift. For between Ickleton and the Royston road only farm waggons went, and they were all in the hayfields; and only motor-cars travelled the road from Newmarket, all passing me as if I needed nothing but more dust to fill eyes, mouth, nose, ears, shoes, and spirit. I have never been offered a lift by a stranger in a motor-car, but friends of mine have told me they have heard of others who have. With the increase of dust and heat the likelihood of a merciful motorist becomes less, because dust and heat do not produce the appearance desirable in a motorist’s companion; in fact, by the end of the day, or of the week, especially if he has forgotten to shave, or has always arrived in a town after shop-shutting, the wayfarer67 runs the risk of being called “mate” by the baker’s man who refuses to let him ride. “Mate” sounds like liberty, equality, and fraternity, but it can really be contemptuous pity. It is no better than[119] “my man” from a gentleman, or “unfortunate sister” from a lady, or “my friend” from a Nonconformist minister. In London it may be different, and I should say that a navvy would use it in a friendly manner. But from the Wallingford baker’s man on a country round it means “Poor ——,” perhaps even “Dirty ——.” By this time essays on walking and walking tours begin to wear very thin. You pitch Stevenson at any rate over the hedge, and cannot find a place suitable for —— and ——. Borrow is safe, but then, he got really tired, and did not regard walking as an amusement. I have no doubt that he had learned to stick out his under-lip at the end of some of his marches.
Nevertheless, stumping68 along on a shoeful of blisters69 is not bad when you are out of Royston and have Pen Hills upon your left; low, insignificant70, restful stretches upon your right; and Odsey before you in the cool of evening. For some distance there was no hedge on the left side of the road beyond the town, and the turf, marked for many yards with tracks made before metalling, rose up to considerable swells71 of chalk cloven sometimes gently and sometimes abruptly into coombes, some smooth as lawns, some beautiful with trees. Tumuli were scattered72 over this smoothest sward, and down from the ridge of the high land came deep, curving trackways. At Odsey beyond they have found with Samian pottery73 the shin bones of men who ran instead of walking. People were walking for pleasure on the grass up above, and children were laughing somewhere near but out of sight.
It was one of those delicious cool ends to perfect days which give a man the feeling of having accomplished74 something, but by no means compel him to inquire what. The road still possessed75 the hills even when it was enclosed on both sides, for it kept broad margins76, the hedges were low between it and the grass or corn land, and it mounted higher and higher. They were the gentlest of chalk hills crested77 with trees—Thrift Hill, Gallows78 Hill, Crouch79 Hill, Pott’s Hill, Rain Hill, Wheat Hill, Windmill Hill, and Weston Hills—and at their highest points there were villages, like Therfield, Kelshall, Sandon, Wallington, Clothall, Weston. I had still four or five miles to walk at the feet of these hills, through a silence undisturbed by the few market carts at long intervals80. I am glad now that I walked them. It seems to me now that my purely81 physical discomfort82 intensified83 the taste of the evening’s beauty, as it certainly made sweeter the perfection of enjoyment84 which I imagine possible at such an hour and in such a place. The road was serpentining85 very little, but enough to conceal86 from me for a long time the chief wayside marks ahead, as well as my destination. I could always see about a quarter of a mile before me, and there the white ribbon disappeared among trees. And this quarter-mile was agreeable in itself, and always suggesting something better beyond, though itself a sufficient end, if need were. Moreover, I was looking out for a house which I had never seen or heard described. A wood-pigeon came sloping down from the far sky with[121] fewer and fewer wing strokes and longer and longer glidings upon half-closed wings as it drew near its home tree. It disappeared; another flew in sight and slanted87 downward with the same “folding-in” motion; and then another. The air was silent and still, the road was empty. The birds coming home to the quiet earth seemed visitors from another world. They seemed to bring something out of the sky down to this world, and the house and garden where I stayed at last were full of this something. I heard rooks among the tall beeches of just such a house as I knew I ought to have been able to imagine, with the help of the long white road and the gentle hills, the tall trees, the rooks, and the evening. There were flowers and lawns, beeches and sycamores, belonging to three centuries, perhaps more, and stately but plain red brick of the same date, and likely to endure for a yet longer period, if not by its own soundness, then by its hold upon the fantasy of men who build nothing like it.
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1
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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milestone
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| n.里程碑；划时代的事件 | |
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6
beeches
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| n.山毛榉( beech的名词复数 )；山毛榉木材 | |
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beech
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| n.山毛榉；adj.山毛榉的 | |
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8
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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taunting
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| 嘲讽( taunt的现在分词 )； 嘲弄； 辱骂； 奚落 | |
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numbed
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| v.使麻木，使麻痹( numb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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11
importunate
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| adj.强求的；纠缠不休的 | |
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trolley
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| n.手推车，台车；无轨电车；有轨电车 | |
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13
ridges
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| n.脊( ridge的名词复数 )；山脊；脊状突起；大气层的)高压脊 | |
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mule
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| n.骡子，杂种，执拗的人 | |
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waggon
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| n.运货马车，运货车；敞篷车箱 | |
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docile
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| adj.驯服的，易控制的，容易教的 | |
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slipper
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| n.拖鞋 | |
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larks
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| n.百灵科鸟（尤指云雀）( lark的名词复数 )；一大早就起床；鸡鸣即起；（因太费力而不想干时说）算了v.百灵科鸟（尤指云雀）( lark的第三人称单数 )；一大早就起床；鸡鸣即起；（因太费力而不想干时说）算了 | |
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connoisseur
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| n.鉴赏家，行家，内行 | |
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margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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dyke
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| n.堤，水坝，排水沟 | |
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fen
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| n.沼泽，沼池 | |
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northward
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| adv.向北；n.北方的地区 | |
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mound
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| n.土墩，堤，小山；v.筑堤，用土堆防卫 | |
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eastward
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| adv.向东；adj.向东的；n.东方，东部 | |
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highland
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| n.(pl.)高地，山地 | |
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plantation
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| n.种植园，大农场 | |
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grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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prehistoric
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| adj.（有记载的）历史以前的，史前的，古老的 | |
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prettily
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| adv.优美地；可爱地 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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Ford
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| n.浅滩，水浅可涉处；v.涉水，涉过 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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cone
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| n.圆锥体，圆锥形东西，球果 | |
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thickets
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| n.灌木丛( thicket的名词复数 )；丛状物 | |
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hurdled
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| vi.克服困难（hurdle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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spires
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| n.（教堂的） 塔尖，尖顶( spire的名词复数 ) | |
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43
myriads
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| n.无数，极大数量( myriad的名词复数 ) | |
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44
shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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45
stump
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| n.残株，烟蒂，讲演台；v.砍断，蹒跚而走 | |
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46
thatch
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| vt.用茅草覆盖…的顶部；n.茅草(屋) | |
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47
gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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48
chirping
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| 鸟叫，虫鸣( chirp的现在分词 ) | |
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49
conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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footpath
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| n.小路，人行道 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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sprawled
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| v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的过去式和过去分词)；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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waggons
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| 四轮的运货马车( waggon的名词复数 )； 铁路货车； 小手推车 | |
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consecutive
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| adj.连续的，联贯的，始终一贯的 | |
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jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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unevenly
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| adv.不均匀的 | |
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knoll
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| n.小山，小丘 | |
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barley
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| n.大麦，大麦粒 | |
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wayfarer
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| n.旅人 | |
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68
stumping
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| 僵直地行走，跺步行走( stump的现在分词 )； 把（某人）难住； 使为难； （选举前）在某一地区作政治性巡回演说 | |
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blisters
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| n.水疱( blister的名词复数 )；水肿；气泡 | |
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insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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swells
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| 增强( swell的第三人称单数 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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pottery
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| n.陶器，陶器场 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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margins
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| 边( margin的名词复数 )； 利润； 页边空白； 差数 | |
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crested
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| adj.有顶饰的，有纹章的，有冠毛的v.到达山顶（或浪峰）( crest的过去式和过去分词 )；到达洪峰，达到顶点 | |
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gallows
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| n.绞刑架，绞台 | |
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crouch
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| v.蹲伏，蜷缩，低头弯腰；n.蹲伏 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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intensified
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| v.（使）增强， （使）加剧( intensify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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85
serpentining
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| v.像蛇般蜷曲的，蜿蜒的( serpentine的现在分词 ) | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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slanted
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| 有偏见的； 倾斜的 | |
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