Essays; Stevenson, Robert Louis, 1850-1894 -- Travel
nature, that will so flatter and satisfy the lust of a man’s eyes; and to
come upon so many of them, after these acres of stone-coloured heavens
and russet woods, and grey-brown ploughlands and white roads, was like
going three whole days’ journey to the southward, or a month back into
the summer.
I was sorry to leave _Peacock Farm_—for so the place is called, after the
name of its splendid pensioners—and go forwards again in the quiet woods.
It began to grow both damp and dusk under the beeches; and as the day
declined the colour faded out of the foliage; and shadow, without form
and void, took the place of all the fine tracery of leaves and delicate
gradations of living green that had before accompanied my walk. I had
been sorry to leave _Peacock Farm_, but I was not sorry to find myself
once more in the open road, under a pale and somewhat troubled-looking
evening sky, and put my best foot foremost for the inn at Wendover.
Wendover, in itself, is a straggling, purposeless sort of place.
Everybody seems to have had his own opinion as to how the street should
go; or rather, every now and then a man seems to have arisen with a new
idea on the subject, and led away a little sect of neighbours to join in
his heresy. It would have somewhat the look of an abortive
watering-place, such as we may now see them here and there along the
coast, but for the age of the houses, the comely quiet design of some of
them, and the look of long habitation, of a life that is settled and
rooted, and makes it worth while to train flowers about the windows, and
otherwise shape the dwelling to the humour of the inhabitant. The
church, which might perhaps have served as rallying-point for these loose
houses, and pulled the township into something like intelligible unity,
stands some distance off among great trees; but the inn (to take the
public buildings in order of importance) is in what I understand to be
the principal street: a pleasant old house, with bay-windows, and three
peaked gables, and many swallows’ nests plastered about the eaves.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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