Following the stream down, I come at length to Exford.

Here the aspect of the country begins to change; it is not all brown desolate heath; there are green flowery meadows by the river, and some wood.

A little further down and the Exe will be a woodland stream; but of all the rest of my long walk I shall only say that to see the real beauty of this stream one must go to Somerset.

From Exford to Dulverton it runs, singing aloud, foam-flecked, between high hills clothed to their summits in oak woods: after its union with the Barle it enters Devonshire as a majestic stream, and flows calmly through a rich green country; its wild romantic charm has been left behind.
The uninformed traveller, whose principle it is never to look at a guide-book, is surprised to find that the small village of Exford contains no fewer than half a dozen inns.

He asks how they are kept going; and the natives, astonished at his ignorance, proceed to enlighten him.