THE GOOD NEIGHBOUR

New Zealand Journal of Agriculture, Volume 74, Issue 2, 15 February 1947, Page 205

THE GOOD NEIGHBOUR

“Smooth Runs the Water..

A FAVOURITE view of mine, and one the appeal of which long familiarity has in no wise lessened, is from a vantage point where two roads meet a few hundred yards from my home. On my frequent journeys down the hill I seldom have time for more than a hasty glance in that direction, the steepness of the gradient and vagaries of the local transport service not being conducive to leisurely strolling. But coming back it is different altogether. ' Though I am fully able to accomplish the ascent at a reasonable pace without halting for breath, nevertheless I find it very pleasant to pause on the crest just •above the junction of the roads, where the wind is clover-sweet and cool and tall hills shoulder the sky, and through the green mist of trees glimpse “the half-moon gleam of water” far below.

If you continue along the road as it climbs higher and higher among the hills, you will have the stream for company only a small portion of the route, for it is shy and retiring, withdrawing from human haunts as much as possible in preference for remote rock-caverns and lonely ravines, and oft-time frequenting the dim labyrinths of ferny gullies. Yet always its voice can be heard, now soft and subdued as the sough of the wind in the pines, now rising like the roar and surge of the sea. And just when you are beginning to despair of ever catching sight of your elusive companion again, you round a narrow loop of the road and suddenly the music of a hidden waterfall sounds close at hand. You approach the lichened timbers of a little bridge and presto! there is the stream dancing and laughing up at you before it goes scurrying over the stones. It is a delightful spot in which to dream for an hour —or a day.

Should you wish to become more closely acquainted with the stream, however, you will do best to forsake the highway for the tiny track which starts at the foot of the cliffs where they meet the outer valley. There it is comparatively easy to trace the water’s course through breast-high thickets. In places the current is quite swift as it races over natural weirs of boulders, but there are shallows, too, and wide, placid pools where children swim in summer.- (As Shakespeare says: “Smooth runs the water where the brook is deep.”) If you are adventurous enough and prepared to wade , part of the way where you cannot force a passage through the tangled overgrowth, you can go blackberrying upstream in season, for the bushes yielding the biggest and sweetest berries cascade down the banks in wild confusion. The ideal time for such expeditions is the early morning “when the day breaks in enchantment And the careless sky is filled with little twisted clouds. The river stirs ... The scented water throws its fragrance to the waiting gorse, And the haloed willows hold a haunting loveliness.” Follow the stream far enough and you will come upon that lovely, secluded dell whose beauty inspired me to describe it in verse when I first discovered it some four or five years ago: Beneath this steep rock-face Which only knows the passive touch of lichens’ Chill-veined, trembling fingers, and never feels The sunlight’s warm embrace I rest, peace girding me. Across the world men haste to —and death! Yet here time slowly moves, like some vast bird Homing through eternity. When you are in meditative mood . and disinclined for Strenuous exertion you will enjoy a walk through the green

paddocks where the stream fans out over shining flats of shingle to join the river. There was a blue haze of heat on the hills today as I sat in the willows’ shade and watched the river. “The light reeled and glinted ... it made a thousand silver daggers ... it spun and eddied and became a cluster of pointed petalled flowers . . . it spread and simmered, lengthening from bank to bank till it was a veil of shimmering gauze. And then it was stars. And suddenly the words were there in my mind

' ... in broad daylight Streams full of stars like skies at night. 9 And I knew that Davies, the poet, had watched it too, the magic that danced • and flickered and died. jb There was the drowsing water and the drench of light . . . beauty and brilliancy for all eyes to see ... a river and a A noonday sun.” fl