The road falls quite steeply, and the Rhone, which it accompanies in
that valley, leaps in little falls.
On a bridge I passed a sad
Englishman reading a book, and a little lower down, two American women
in a carriage, and after that a priest (it was lucky I did not see him
first. Anyhow, I touched iron at once, to wit, a key in my pocket),
and after that a child minding a goat. Altogether I felt myself in the
world again, and as I was on a good road, all down hill, I thought
myself capable of pushing on to the next village. But my hunger was
really excessive, my right boot almost gone, and my left boot nothing
to exhibit or boast of, when I came to a point where at last one
looked down the Rhone valley for miles. It is like a straight trench,
and at intervals there are little villages, built of most filthy
chalets, the said chalets raised on great stones. There are pine-trees
up, up on either slope, into the clouds, and beyond the clouds I could
not see. I left on my left a village called 'Between the Waters'. I
passed through another called 'Ehringen', but it has no inn. At last,
two miles farther, faint from lack of food, I got into Ulrichen, a
village a little larger than the rest, and the place where I believed
one should start to go either over the Gries or Nufenen Pass.
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