404

SUFFOLK LANES

CHAP.

wild parsleys. Along the rough waggon track a dog drives a flock of sheep while their young shepherd lies down to drink of the waters of the brook. In the neighbourhood of East Bergholt are many such lanes, bordered by oaks and elms, and hedgerows draped with bryony. They tempt you to leave the highroads and by-roads; but if you yield to the temptation you find it hard to retrace your steps, for every turning reveals some fresh alluring charm. One such lane branches off from the Flatford road and seems to lose itself in the Dedham Vale;

But like most

but the road leads down to the river. And it is towards the river I ramble after leaning for an hour or more over that field gate on the uplands above the vale. strangers in this enchanting country I find it impossible to hasten. For the road suddenly becomes an arboreal cloister into which the sunlight filters as through the leafage of a dense wood, and again I am a laggard wayfarer, loitering as though I had a lifetime in which to find my way to Flatford Mill. A noontide twilight lurks in this tunnel of sylvan greenery; moths which shun the daylight are abroad here at midday; even in winter, when the trees are leafless, this bit of road can

XIV

FLATFORD MILL

405

never know full daylight, so closely interlaced are its over-arching boughs. I begin to think that Nature never meant men to discover Flatford, so made the approach to it one of captivating charm.

But I have determined that no witchery of Nature shall keep me from seeing Flatford Mill, and when I emerge from the mystic noon-gloom of this sylvan shadow-land I have freed myself of the last of her magic spells. Before me lie the open levels of the Stour valley-a wide plain of pleasant pasturelands where cattle are grazing amid whispering sedges and gleaming willows. As I cross the rustic wooden bridge which spans the river a little way below the mill I hear the rushing of water over a weir, and following the footpath by the riverside I soon come to the lock gates. A few steps further and the mill itself comes in sight on the opposite bank of the stream. It has altered little since Constable painted it nearly a hundred years ago; but the trees which then gave it a sylvan setting almost hide it now, and to see it clearly I have to cross the river again. But the old wooden lock is quite unchanged, and so, too, is the towing path which was one of the artist's favourite haunts. Giant burdocks, pink hemp agrimony, dingy figwort, and large-leaved comfrey grow close beside it, and it is fragrant of water-mint and almond-scented meadow-sweet. A more peaceful scene one cannot imagine. Not a jarring sound breaks the spell of its quiet beauty. The stream flows silently until it falls over the weir, and even then its voice is as soothing as that of a summer breeze among summer leaves. Now and again a rat rustles in the sedges or a fish makes a faint splash as it rises to the surface of the mill pool. Brilliant-hued dragonflies flash like living gems above the bright-green water-weeds, beautiful as the flickering sun-gleams which steal through the willows to the stream. A lad who came down to the river to fish has fallen asleep on the bank, where he lies half concealed by mauve-flowered water mints. His rod has fallen from his hand and its line is entangled with a patch of stout-stemmed

406

MIST AND MOONLIGHT

CH. XIV

hemlock in the stream. His stillness reminds me that Constable, while painting here one day, sat so still that a field mouse crept into his coat pocket.

Dusk descends with almost tropical suddenness upon the Stour valley, for when the setting sun reaches the uplands' high horizon the shadows steal quickly over the lowlands. As soon as the light fails little wisps of mist appear, marking the windings of the river. Slowly the mist spreads over the meadows, lurking close to the ground, so that the trunks of trees are hidden while their branches are unconcealed. The grass and flowers are soon saturated with moisture, and the briars fringed with mist-drops which shower down at the slightest touch. Then it is time to leave the lowlands and seek a clearer and drier air; so I retrace my steps to East Bergholt. Under the dense leafage of the sylvan part of the Flatford road the gloom is now at its deepest, and a man who bids me a gruff "good-night" passes unseen; but when I reach the gate over which I got my first glimpse of the Vale of Dedham a surprise awaits me. For there I see the moon rising and slowly filling the vale with silvery light. The effect is weirdly beautiful; it is aërial, nebulous, phantasmal; for the whole valley is now white with mist. From my point of vantage I can almost believe I am on a mountain top and looking down on cloudland, and that the dark blotches which are really trees are glimpses of the earth beneath the clouds. Nature has drawn a white coverlet over the sleeping earth—a coverlet which, in the moonlight, seems made of the very drapery of dreams.