In this red and green country of Devon
I am apt to meet with adventures quite unlike those experienced in
other counties, only they are mostly adventures of the spirit.
Lying awake at six o'clock last October, in Exeter, and seeing it was a
grey misty morning, my inclination was to sleep again. I only dozed and
was in the twilight condition when the mind is occupied with idle
images and is now in the waking world, now in dreamland. A thought of
the rivers in the red and green country floated through my brain - of
the Clyst among others; then of the villages on the Clyst; of
Broadclyst, Clyst St. Mary, Clyst St. Lawrence, finally of Clyst Hyden;
and although dozing I half laughed to remember how I went searching for
that same village last May and how I wouldn't ask my way of anyone,
just because it was Clyst Hyden, because the name of that little hidden
rustic village had been written in the hearts of some who had passed
away long ago, far far from home: - how then could I fail to find it? -
it would draw my feet like a magnet!
I remembered how I searched among deep lanes, beyond rows and rows of
ancient hedgerow elms, and how I found its little church and thatched
cottages at last, covered with ivy and roses and creepers, all in a
white and pink cloud of apple blossoms. Searching for it had been great
fun and finding it a delightful experience; why not have the pleasure
once more now that it was May again and the apple orchards in blossom?
No sooner had I asked myself the question than I was on my bicycle
among those same deep lanes, with the unkept hedges and the great
hedgerow elms shutting out a view of the country, searching once more
for the village of Clyst Hyden.
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