The young grass had the warm fragrance of new milk.
As he went he munched his buns, for he had resolved to have no plethoric midday meal, and presently he found the burnside nook of his fancy, and halted to smoke.

On a patch of turf close to a grey stone bridge he had out his Walton and read the chapter on "The Chavender or Chub." The collocation of words delighted him and inspired him to verse.

"Lavender or Lub"-- "Pavender or Pub"-"Gravender or Grub"-- but the monosyllables proved too vulgar for poetry.

Regretfully he desisted.
The rest of the road was as idyllic as the start.

He would tramp steadily for a mile or so and then saunter, leaning over bridges to watch the trout in the pools, admiring from a dry-stone dyke the unsteady gambols of new-born lambs, kicking up dust from strips of moor-burn on the heather.