It is a region that well fits the frame of mind induced by black, thundery weather, when the water looks like lead, and the trout lie on the bottom, and there is no fly, and one has smoked one's last cigarette. Yet in sunshine and in this early season it has a beauty that the more open water above lacks, a beauty of shadow and colour, when the light filters yellow-green through young beech leaves, and mingles with the brown-green that the river weeds reflect upwards where the jewelled heart of the wood joins the glowing depth of the stream.
From one bank lush water-meadows spread away to the foot of the downs, and the stuggy, good-natured pollards stand in rows along the ditches and lead the eye unenviously to tremendous elms, shadowing the valley road. Yes, if you turn your back on the river (he will take no offence) the scenery is cheerful enough. Here the Valley is broader than above, the wind has a freer sweep and the clouds seem to sail more steadily; and the cuckoos, I swear, fly here and shout more vigorously. I have often been wonderfully uplifted at the Lower End. There is no part of the water where meditation (an important branch of dry-fly angling) may be practised with less chance of interruption, and there is no part which I do more heartily love. For here the days begin.
