Later they reach sad, weary towns, black beneath a never-lifted
pall of smoke, where day and night the clang of iron drowns all
human voices, where the children play with ashes, where the men and
women have dull, patient faces; and so on, muddy and stained, to
the deep sea that ceaselessly calls to them. Here, however, their
waters are fresh and clear, and their passing makes the only stir
that the valley has ever known. Surely, of all peaceful places,
this was the one where a tired worker might find strength.
My one-eyed friend had suggested I should seek lodgings at the
house of one Mistress Cholmondley, a widow lady, who resided with
her only daughter in the white-washed cottage that is the last
house in the village, if you take the road that leads over Coll
Fell.
"Tha' can see th' house from here, by reason o' its standing so
high above t'others," said the carrier, pointing with his whip.
"It's theer or nowhere, aw'm thinking, for folks don't often coom
seeking lodgings in these parts."
The tiny dwelling, half smothered in June roses, looked idyllic,
and after a lunch of bread and cheese at the little inn I made my
way to it by the path that passes through the churchyard.
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