It had its source in a loch, from which the mountain rose steeply--a place so glassy in that August forenoon that every scar and wrinkle of the hillside were faithfully reflected.

After that I crossed a low pass to the head of another sea-lock, and, following the map, struck over the shoulder of a great hill and ate my luncheon far up on its side, with a wonderful vista of wood and water below me.
All that morning I was very happy, not thinking about Gresson or Ivery, but getting my mind clear in those wide spaces, and my lungs filled with the brisk hill air.

But I noticed one curious thing.

On my last visit to Scotland, when I covered more moorland miles a day than any man since Claverhouse, I had been fascinated by the land, and had pleased myself with plans for settling down in it.

But now, after three years of war and general rocketing, I felt less drawn to that kind of landscape.