I have met Purfling.
A little while ago, coming across Slattery's lawn where it borders the river, I saw a man standing on the wooden bridge at the top of the shallow. I always approach this bridge with hosannahs on my lips; it is in such a very beautiful place. Here the Valley opens out suddenly. Great meadows, among which the river saunters, and great elms and the two downs that close the view—the one round and green, the other capped with its clump and streaked red with plough land—compose the prospect upstream. Beyond the downs, right in the broad V they make, the sun sets on summer evenings, and out of the sunset the red quills float towards one, and in the lit water broad black rings appear. Crab Hatch is just round the corner, and Crab Hatch holds the fathers of the stream.
This is the best bit of the river.
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